Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Page 3

  I am your ever faithful bro,

  Richard

  Rowland dropped the letter on the table. First Mary, then Elizabeth, then their father, and now Richard, who had always been his strongest encourager, who most truly understood his urgency to preach. That Richard should ask him to pull back in his effort…

  He wasn’t even aware of the knock on his door until Pearce, his tutor, stood before him. Rowland’s heart sank even further at the look on Pearce’s face. “Hill, you must take me seriously.”

  “I always take you seriously, sir.”

  The tutor sat stiffly upright in a straight wooden chair. “I have come from the Master with the gravest news.”

  Rowland looked at him levelly, awaiting the blow.

  “He is determined to expel you unless you cease your preaching outside the established church. That is final.”

  Rowland looked at his tall, broad-shouldered tutor with dark hair tied back in a neat queue. This was indeed serious news but hardly unexpected. Rowland could give only one reply. “My irregular meetings may not be sanctioned by man, but they are sanctioned by a Higher Power. Which would you have me obey, Pearce?”

  Suddenly Rowland smiled. This blow, coming after what he had thought to be the final stroke, instead of making him crumple, fueled his determination. “Do not look so dismal, Pearce. I know you are on my side and want only the best. And I know how it is with the authorities. Much good has been done lately in the town and in the university, so they naturally suppose me to be at the bottom of it. Well, I may be at the bottom of it, but I’m not at the top. The Lord is King.”

  Pearce was not mollified. “Hill, it is because I am as much your friend as ever that I want you to continue in college. At first I thought the Master agreed to my plea. But then he seemed sorry for what he had granted. He does not accuse you of any fresh disobedience. It is yet again the old score—if you are to stay in college, he insists upon your promising never to make any more converts in the university or to go into any house in the town to offer relief. And you must give all your alms into the hands of others to dispense for you.”

  Rowland rose to his full height and took several quick strides around the room on his long legs. At last he came to a stop in front of his tutor. “These terms are utterly against my conscience. I never could consent to them. My activities are by no means against any law of God or of man. I would sooner leave the university than stay on such terms.”

  There was absolute silence in the room. Then with a small nod of his head, Pearce rose. “I will go again to the Master, but I can offer you little hope.” He gave Rowland a firm handclasp before he left the room.

  “Well, at least he didn’t forbid preaching in the prison,” Rowland said to the closed door. He shrugged into his woolen coat and tugged the inch-wide frills of his linen shirt out from the narrow coat sleeves. He picked up his tricorn hat, walking stick, and well-worn Bible and prayer book. Then firmly, he closed the door, as if shutting all controversy and opposition into the room behind him.

  The afternoon was as blustery as the morning had been, and Rowland shivered as he went out the main gate. He paused beneath the statue of St. John bearing the arms of the college founder and the carving of a bunch of marguerites for the name of their foundress Lady Margaret. Rowland took vague comfort from the fact that for centuries this ground had been hallowed by service to needy people and to the glory of God—first occupied by a hospital and then by the college which became a center of Renaissance scholarship.

  “Good day,” Rowland greeted his faithful friend the shoeblack at his place of business just outside the gate.

  The man’s weathered, wrinkled face broke into a smile made brilliant by his white teeth and round eyes. “Good day to you, Mr. Hill, sir. The good Lord bless you. You want me to black your shoes today? Free for you, as always.”

  “Thank you, Cobbleton. I appreciate the offer, but they’ll need it a lot worse when I come back down the hill.”

  “You goin’ to preach to the captive souls, eh?” He smiled at his own joke. “Well, God give you freedom.”

  Another gownsman approached with shoes clearly in need of Cobbleton’s services, and Rowland turned toward the river. At the bridge he met Pentycross, and the two continued up the slight incline of Magdalen Street. Only the mound remained to mark what had been Cambridge Castle in medieval times. The castle had been little used since the fifteenth century and had fallen into ruins. All that now remained was the gatehouse, which was used as a prison.

  Rowland was a familiar figure to warders and prisoners alike and had no trouble gaining admission. After all the opposition he had faced recently, the prison seemed almost friendly; but he was still grateful for the companionship of Pentycross. The turnkey showed them into the largest of the common cells. Unlike the rowdy, egg-throwing townies and sneering, supercilious gownsmen Rowland encountered when he preached in the marketplace, the prisoners were grateful for any break in the boredom of their days. Whether they listened for spiritual counsel or merely for entertainment, at least they listened.

  “Ah, ’tis Parson ’ill. Climbed the ’ill to bring us a word, ’ave ye?” The words whistled through the spaces in the old man’s teeth.

  “That’s right, Nettle. Didn’t think I’d forget you, did you?”

  “Ye might as well. All else of ’um ’ast.”

  “No, my friend, not quite all. The Lord has not forgotten you.”

  “Nor ’as ta grim reaper. Old Jones died o’ the grippe three days past. Death an’ disease don’t forget no one.” A cackle of laughter accompanied his words.

  Rowland looked around the filthy cell to include everyone in his reply to Nettle. “May God bring you to the only remedy against that most direful of diseases—sin. This poor sinner who speaks to you found the remedy at the foot of the cross.

  “In this dark place we need to let the light shine—the light of God’s love. We cannot shine with rays of our own, but we can shine if shone upon.”

  As Rowland spoke, a deep quiet descended on the rough, untutored worshipers, as if the old stones of the Castle gatehouse were hallowed ground. The sense of reverence touched Rowland’s own rapidly beating heart as he looked from face to face; a few stood out clearly—the grizzled Nettle who always greeted him with the latest news of their small community, imprisoned for debts that probably would never be paid; the sneering but attentive Jakeman, proud of his escapades as a thief and likely to return to them unless God changed his heart; Gastard, the youngest of the prisoners, who had stolen a loaf to feed his three starving sisters.

  At the end of the service Rowland prayed. Then he and Penty retraced their steps back down Castle Hill. Pentycross chatted about the service and college affairs, but Rowland hardly listened, simply nodding when his friend paused.

  “You all right, Hill?” Pentycross asked when they reached St. John’s gate. “Never knew you to keep quiet so long altogether.”

  Rowland was slow to answer, as if considering his answer. Then he smiled at his friend. “Yes. Yes, I truly believe I am all right.” His smile broadened. “Thank you for accompanying me. Must hurry now; not good form to be late for Hall.”

  Back in his rooms, putting on the satin knee breeches and heavily embroidered coat required for college dining, Rowland was able to define the feeling that had been growing on him since the service at the Castle. It was the most wonderful sense of release. Whatever the outcome with the college authorities, he had done right.

  “Some hot water, please, Bottisham.” He sent his gyp out of the room so he could exult in the experience alone. When the door closed, he flung out his arms as if to embrace all of God’s world. He threw his head back and laughed—a deep, rich laughter that came from his heart and winged upward to Heaven like a prayer.

  He might have continued laughing until Bottisham returned had he not caught sight of the hastily discarded letters on his table and been reminded again of his family’s disapproval. Rowland could be sure in his own mind
and heart that he was doing right, but how would he convince those dearest to him?

  Three

  Nothing was further from Mary’s mind than preaching in a prison. At high noon the Tudway coach-and-four rolled past the fashionable shops lining the Pulteney Bridge and made a triumphal entry into Bath. Squire Tudway had not come on the trip himself but made no objection to his wife and daughter accompanying Elizabeth and Clement. And so, after days of hurried packing and last-minute calls to the dressmaker, Mary was making her first visit to the fashionable spa.

  The city of graceful spires and ringing bells, of golden buildings—each as beautiful as an artist’s sculpture—of glorious flowers against a hillside of emerald greenness, of the greatest elegance the aristocracy of England could produce entranced Mary. The bells decreed by Beau Nash to ring welcome to important new arrivals pealed forth and echoed against the blue March sky.

  Mary had never been happier. Cloistered in the quiet cathedral city of Wells, she had longed for this gaiety. Beaux and courtesans, Macaronies and the cream of society—this marvelously brilliant company she would now enter.

  When the coach turned into Broad Street, Mary’s head felt like a shuttlecock as she turned from side to side, trying to take in the shops and the parade of fashion. Elegant ladies with coiffures almost a foot high swept up the street followed by maids and pages carrying colorful band boxes while ornate gilt and tapestry sedan chairs bearing ladies of even greater importance were carried on poles by liveried chairmen. And then Mary, who thought she was prepared for any sight, cried in astonishment, “Oh, pray tell, Elizabeth, are those Macaronies?”

  Elizabeth bent forward carefully so as not to hit her headdress on the panels of the coach and looked out. “Indeed they are,” she laughed. “But perhaps rather restrained ones.”

  The two young swells walked slowly so that all might admire. The one closer to the Tudway carriage wore a towering white wig. On top of it perched a tiny tricorn hat. At that moment a lady of his acquaintance approached, and he had to use his gold-knobbed, tasseled cane to raise his hat to her, since the hat was well beyond the reach of his arm.

  His companion, clad in a form-fitting suit in startling shades of scarlet and cerise, flicked open a jeweled snuffbox before making the lady an elegant bow, and then tottered on up the street on his three-inch red high heels.

  Mary now turned around in her seat watching the amazing sight through the rear window. “Restrained?” she gasped.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Well, not too restrained. But since the supreme goal in life to all members of the Macaroni Club is to be different, you may meet some more alarming specimens yet.”

  “Elizabeth,” Mrs. Tudway said sharply, “I hope you use the term ‘meet’ loosely. My daughter may see such oddities, but I do not want any such ridiculous fops presented to her.”

  Elizabeth was immediately as serious as her mother-in-law. “Certainly, Mother Tudway. That would be most unsuitable. I shall watch with exceeding care that none but the most proper young men are introduced to Mary.”

  Mary gritted her teeth. What was the good of coming to a fashionable spa if one could meet only suitable people? There were plenty such people in Wells—canons, deacons, worthy squires like her father and brothers. As she drank in the heady atmosphere, she realized more clearly than ever just how circumscribed her life had been. Since her come-out two years before, she had attended all that the city of Wells had to offer—fetes at the Bishop’s Palace, picnics in the summer, dinner parties with the local gentry. It had been just enough to whet her appetite for more fun and fashion.

  And before that there had been yearly trips to London, with extended stays when Papa was in Parliament; but she had been a schoolgirl then, never out from under the careful eye of her governess, Miss Fossbenner. Mary had quickly learned that pianoforte, embroidery, French, and watercolor lessons were quite as dull in London as in Wells, even when relieved by a carefully supervised outing to a museum or park. There was certainly never a glimpse of such amusements as the elegant Vauxhall Gardens she had read and dreamed of, with its grand promenades, fireworks displays, and even masquerade parties.

  Mary’s active imagination had fed richly on such scenes. And letters from her father’s estate manager in Antigua, telling of life in that faraway island with strange people and exotic customs, further fired her daydreams. Well, she wasn’t in Antigua or in London, but Bath would do very well for the moment. As a mark of her independence she hadn’t even brought any of her needlework with her.

  The coach swept around the Circus, a magnificent circle of homes designed in the classical style with a green park in the center. “Oh, Clement, how grand. I wish we could have taken rooms here,’’ Mary cried.

  “Just wait, little sister. I have done better for you. The Circus is very fashionable, but offers no view except of one’s neighbor. I find the Royal Crescent much more to my liking.”

  The coach rattled to the end of Brook Street, and Mary gasped at the sight of a vast green lawn sweeping up the steep hillside to a crescent of buildings even more elegant than the Circus. “It is considered to be the finest crescent in Europe,” Clement said. “I would not dispute that, but it is the view clear down to the River Avon that made it my choice. Also the fact that the Childs are staying here. I thought that our Mother would be more comfortable with neighbors she already knows.”

  Mrs. Tudway beamed her approval. “Excellent, Clement, very well done.”

  When the coach stopped before number 6, Clement ushered the ladies into the entrance hall hung with paper skillfully marbled to resemble a golden Italian terrazzo. He held open the door of the drawing room. Mary admired its green silk damask wall hangings, melon-colored Chippendale sofa, and the amber Axminster carpet.

  “I’ll tell Benson to send in a dish of bohea while the luggage is being attended to.” Clement turned to direct the servants he had sent ahead from their home in Wells.

  But Mary could not sit still and drink tea. She wandered around the room, gazing at the marble fireplace, the pianoforte, the chandelier of Bristol glass, wondering how long she could contain her impatience to explore more of the city. Fortunately, she wasn’t required to wait long. Benson quickly returned to announce Mrs. Child and Miss Child.

  “Sarah!” This time it was Mary who flew to her friend. “We have come! Isn’t it famous! Just as we planned!”

  The girls sat on small velvet chairs, their heads bent together as Sarah chattered on about the city. “Everyone rises at six for a soak at the hot baths. The doctor says Mama must bathe every day, and I often accompany her. Then we go to the Pump Room. The water is unspeakably foul, but you won’t be obliged to drink it. Mr. King, the Master of Ceremonies—everyone says he’s quite as good at it as that autocratic Beau Nash who set all his fusty rules—picks out the finest beau in the room to present to me every morning. Mama is very careful that he not introduce any fortune hunters; but after all, that is why one relies on a Master of Ceremonies, to keep off the undesirables. There must be enough of them in a place like this.

  “After the Pump Room everyone takes breakfast. Now that the weather is warmer, perhaps we may get up a party to Spring Gardens across the river. Then there’s holy service at the Abbey.”

  Mary made a face and her informant laughed. “No, really, one must go—it’s quite de rigueur to be seen there—and, of course, only the quality attend, so one can always hope to meet a beau to escort one to the bookstore or the shops afterward.”

  After Sarah’s excited buildup, it was with anticipation simmering almost to the boiling point that Mary entered the Pump Room the following morning. “If you will stay here just a moment, I will secure a table.” Clement bowed before leaving his mother, wife, and sister. And Mary was indeed happy just to stand and survey the great room. Around the walls Corinthian columns rose white and gold. At the far end of the room in a galleried alcove, a trio of musicians played a lively Haydn air for those promenading around the room in elegant dishabille afte
r their morning baths. Along the wall to her left was a smaller alcove backed by tall French doors where pumpers behind a counter served glasses of Bath’s famous mineral water. And indeed the invalids leaning on sticks or being pushed around the room in wicker chairs, their heavily bandaged, gouty feet elevated for comfort, indicated the popularity of the remedy.

  “We are in luck.” Clement returned in triumph. “There are no tables available, but Mrs. Child has invited us to join her party.” Clement led the way to the center of the room where mahogany Sheraton chairs clustered around a small table.

  Clement then left to get the mineral water. Everyone was expected to down three glasses of the health-giving liquid. Even before he returned, the Master of Ceremonies approached their table with all the pomp of his office. He bowed to Mrs. Child and begged that she present the new members of her company. Mr. King carried a cream-colored three-cornered hat to match the gold-frogged, lace-edged coat he wore over an embroidered waistcoat and ruffled shirt—as close a replica as possible of the deceased Beau Nash whose shoes he attempted to fill. King chatted for a few moments with Mrs. Tudway and Elizabeth and then bowed his leave-taking.

  In a very few minutes, however, he returned with two young gentlemen in tow.

  Mary’s heart leapt at the sight of the shorter and more handsome one. His powdered hair was arranged with just the right amount of curl and elevation to accent his classic aquiline nose and fine cheekbones, just as the particular shade of blue-green ribbed silk from which his coat and breeches were cut emphasized the color of his eyes. The exquisite chenille embroidery and silver sequin ornamentation of his waistcoat revealed that he was a gentleman of the finest taste.

  “Miss Tudway, may I have the great honor of presenting Mister Roger Twysden, nephew of the Bishop of Raphoe,” Mr. King said. The nephew of a bishop. Even her careful father couldn’t fault such a family—even if the bishopric was in Ireland. Mary smiled radiantly as Mr. Twysden bowed over her hand.