Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Read online

  A sharp jab in her ribs from Sarah brought Mary back to attention, and she realized the Master of Ceremonies had left them each with a beau, just as Sarah had foretold. But the suppressed excitement on Sarah’s face told her something special was afoot.

  “Mary, you were quite lost when Mr. King made his introductions. Now I must do it all over again. May I present John Fane, the Earl of Westmoreland. You will hear his friends call him Rapid, I believe.” Sarah managed to keep her face straight, but couldn’t suppress the twinkle in her eyes, nor the ring of excitement in her voice.

  Mary acknowledged the introduction as it had been given, as if this were the first meeting between Sarah and His Lordship; but she was certain this was the titled beau Sarah had told her of in excited whispers at The Cedars—the one her father disapproved of, but who had sworn to follow her to Bath. Mrs. Child, deep in gossip with Elizabeth and Hannah Tudway, showed no disapproval, however; and as Mr. Child was in faraway London toiling at his sign of the Marygold, there seemed to be no threat to Sarah’s happiness.

  A short time later, when Mrs. Child accepted Westmoreland’s invitation for the company to join him at a concert breakfast, Mary’s suspicion was confirmed. Either Mrs. Child didn’t know of or didn’t share her husband’s disapproval.

  At that moment, there was a stir in the crowd. A small, severe-looking woman in a dark green gown and full white headdress that gave the effect of a prioress, entered through the French doors. An assortment of followers trailed behind at a respectful distance, but Mary’s attention was caught by the sweet-looking young woman a few paces behind the “prioress.” The girl, in a gown of heavy ivory satin over a pale blue petticoat, appeared to be older than Mary by perhaps six years, but Mary felt immediately drawn by the sweetness of her expression.

  “Egad.” Roger Twysden flipped the lace handkerchief he carried. “It’s Her Holiness, the Countess of Huntingdon, honoring us with her presence. Probably come to lead in prayers or bless the water or something.”

  The Master of Ceremonies rushed forward to greet Her Ladyship and escort her party to a hastily prepared table near the musicians’ gallery. Mr. King himself brought glasses of water to the countess’s table.

  Mary turned to gain a clearer view of the celebrated lady. “And who is the young woman with her—the pretty one?”

  Sarah leaned closer. “That’s Lady Selina, the countess’s daughter. She really is perfectly amiable, for all she embraces her mama’s fusty theology.”

  “I hope I shall have opportunity to meet her.”

  The words were no more than out of Mary’s mouth when Elizabeth spoke up. “I believe I should pay my respects to Her Ladyship. The countess is a great encourager of my brother; and before his death, her chaplain, Mr. Whitefield, wrote Rowland numerous letters boosting his faith.”

  For a moment Mary was stunned. In the excitement of Bath she had all but forgotten the young man who so recently had caused her such emotional stir. This great lady had taken notice of Rowland? And he had come under the tutelage of the famous George Whitefield? What had her friend done to catch the attention of such noted people?

  But Mary’s questions went unanswered as Clement hurried off to secure Mr. King’s services to present their party to the countess and to secure additional chairs.

  “Ah, yes. The sister of our dear Rowly,” Lady Huntingdon said to Elizabeth a few minutes later, casting a sharp eye at Elizabeth’s fashionably low-cut neckline. “Well, make certain you stay away from the card rooms. Society here is nothing but one vast casino. I would not have our dear Rowly’s sister drawn into the evils of this place. I daresay you have come for the waters and will find them quite invigorating, but the rest is nothing but an unending pursuit of pleasure occupying the whole day, to the exclusion of anything useful or sensible.”

  Some gave unintelligible murmurs as the countess paused for a sip of the invigorating water. Then she continued, “All here is a tedious circle of meaningless hurry, anxiety, fatigue, and fancied enjoyments the entire day. In short,” and here she addressed Mary and Sarah directly, “nothing can be more trifling than the life of a lady, nor,” she turned to Roger Twysden and the young earl, “more insipid than that of a gentleman at Bath. The one is a constant series of flirting and gadding about, the other of sauntering from place to place without any scheme or pursuit. Scandal and fashions engross the entire of conversations.” Now she looked at Mrs. Tudway. “You and your party will, of course, choose a higher way of life, but you must be on your guard. The evil is insidious.”

  Mrs. Tudway offered a reassuring answer for the whole company.

  Lady Selina, the countess’s daughter, smiled pleasantly at Mary and spoke for the first time. “Would you care to take a turn around the room? Colonel Hastings will escort us.”

  Mary agreed, and the handsome uniformed man sitting on Selina’s left instantly rose, held their chairs, and offered each one an arm. The rest of the company was engrossed in conversation—or more particularly in listening to the countess as she dismissed the promenaders with a brief nod.

  “Have you been in Bath long?” Lady Selina asked.

  “We arrived only yesterday.”

  “And are you enjoying it?”

  After the countess’s blunt words, Mary wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t want the lady whom she had admired earlier to think her lost to all sense of propriety. “It is very beautiful.”

  “Indeed it is. And do not let Mama frighten you. You will find many delightful pastimes, though what she says about the vices is quite true. You must attend a service in our chapel when you have time. Mama is preparing a great celebration for the seventh anniversary of its opening. Rowland Hill—he would be your brother-in-law, would he not?—has preached there several times for Mama.”

  Mary was stunned. “Rowly? But he isn’t ordained yet.”

  “No, and, of course, he doesn’t celebrate the Sacrament. But Mama has a seminary in Wales, and she often offers opportunities for students to bring addresses in her chapel. Rowland Hill is the best I’ve ever heard. I believe he will be as great a preacher as Mr. Whitefield. There are even those who say Whitefield’s mantle has fallen on him.”

  Again all Mary could say was, “Rowly?”

  They continued around the room, and Mary was glad to see that the tête-à-tête at the countess’s table was concluding when they arrived. She had not adjusted to Bath hours and at home she would have breakfasted long ago.

  Since the concert breakfasts were considered polite entertainment, the countess joined Westmoreland’s party. The entire company took to their carriages to travel back up the hill to the Upper Rooms on Bennett Street off the Circus. The Upper Assembly Rooms, opened just the year before, had been designed by John Wood the Younger at the staggering sum of twenty thousand pounds. These rooms now served as the center of the city’s social life.

  Breakfast was set in the main ballroom, the tables and chairs dwarfed beneath the magnificent high ceiling. The pale blue room with its white plaster ornamentation and row of crystal chandeliers seemingly suspended in midair seemed to Mary the most beautiful salon she had ever seen. From the musicians’ gallery the orchestra filled the room with baroque music as exquisitely ornamented as the architecture itself.

  With the abundance of fashionable company, beautiful music, and delectable food, it was easy to understand why these events were so popular. The menu was an elaborate affair of three courses of boiled and roasted meats, savory pies, and the famed Bath buns chock full of currants and with sticky icing that required licking of the fingers after eating.

  But the countess did not approve of the menu. “I never cease to be amazed by the folly of men. They realize that without health life is a burden and that this blessing can only be obtained by exercise and abstinence; yet even after the heyday of youth is passed, they will go on loading their bodies with distemper, pain, and sorrow till life is not worth accepting. Then they repair to Bath where they drink three pints of the waters, and t
hen sit down to a meal of hot spongy rolls rendered high by burnt butter. Such a meal few young men in full health can get over without feeling much inconvenience, and I have known it to produce almost instantaneous death to valetudinarians.”

  Roger Twysden, who was enjoying his third such roll “high with burnt butter,” tried to mollify Her Ladyship, or at least to change the topic. “May I have the honor of escorting those who wish to go to the Abbey for matins? My uncle is to read the service. Dreadful bore, I fear, but one must do one’s duty.”

  The countess and her party had had morning prayers hours before in her private chapel, and Mrs. Tudway declined as she was to have her first meeting with Mr. Gainsborough that day. But Elizabeth agreed to go, and Mrs. Child felt that the wife of the Honourable Clement Hill would be sufficient chaperone for Sarah. So the smaller party arranged themselves in Westmoreland’s elegant town coach and journeyed back down the hill.

  Mary caught her breath as she entered the majestic nave with its lacelike vaulting of pale gold stone arches and the brilliant stained-glass window glowing from the midday sun.

  “Pray, hurry along, Mary. We want to get the best seats,” Sarah broke her reverie.

  On Roger Twysden’s arm, Mary walked the full length of the nave to the front seats reserved for members of the bishop’s family. To the left of the altar sat the visiting bishop on his throne, splendid in a surplice of finest lawn and lace mantle. The light from the jeweled window fell across his mitered head and added a glow to the look of benediction on his face.

  Glancing around her, Mary saw that the Abbey was almost filled. And the worshipers nearly rivaled the gorgeous east window for richness of color and design. Everyone was clad in silk or satin ornamented with gold or silver lace, metallic embroidery, and silk flounces. The towering headdresses of the women and powdered wigs of the men seemed to be reaching toward the Gothic arches above them. But the coiffures were the only part of the audience that reached heavenward. The elderly settled into comfortable sleep with their hands folded across their laps, and the young people flirted, the girls behind their fluttering fans.

  At first Mary was shocked at such behavior in church. Then Roger winked at her in a way that made his blue-green eyes dance, and she responded by fluttering her own fan. She decided this was all quite natural. Surely God wanted people to be happy in church.

  The organ prelude came to an end, and the bishop rose and walked to the reading stand. In somber, melodious tones rivaling those of the organ, he read from the prayer book.

  Mary slipped to her knees with the rest of the congregation for the general confession, the rich solemnity of the bishop’s voice making her think seriously of her own shortcomings and her need to seek forgiveness. “Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep…” Mary was repeating the words as her own prayer when she felt a nudging from Roger behind her. She opened her eyes and saw that he was holding out a note to her.

  In some surprise she took the folded square of paper and opened it while the bishop was reading the absolution.

  To Mary

  Your eyes are as blue as the sky of Bath,

  Your voice as sweet as the bells in their spire,

  We met but this morn, and already you have

  Captured my heart; you my rapture inspire.

  Confusion reigned in Mary’s mind. Should she be flattered by Roger’s attentions or outraged by their impropriety? Was he so overcome by passion for her that he couldn’t restrain himself, or had he no sense of what was appropriate during a holy service? And then she became aware of the company around her. She had focused on the beauty of the service and had truly worshiped, as she always did in church. But even as the bishop was reading, she heard giggles, sighs, and whispers all around her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw other notes being passed, even across the wide aisle.

  So Roger was merely trifling with her according to the fashion, writing some flattering words—in bad verse—to lessen the boredom of listening to his uncle. Her temper flared. Picking up her prayer book, she brought it down with a sharp crack across his knuckles. She was only sorry that she couldn’t bring it down on his head.

  But, as always, her temper died as quickly as it flared and left her horrified at what she had done. Everyone must be staring. Her mother would hear of it, and she would be borne back to Wells in disgrace. Roger would be humiliated and never speak to her again. The first poem she received in Bath would be her last.

  Then she looked up and saw Roger grinning saucily. No one else was looking at her. All were intent on their own flirtations. Even Sarah and Westmoreland beside her had not noticed. Then Mary heard a similar sharp crack behind her and knew that another girl had rapped her suitor’s knuckles with a fan. Now Mary understood. The young lady behind her was teasing, as Roger thought she was also.

  Still confused by the topsy-turvy values of this society, Mary returned Roger’s smile. But after the service, she declined his invitation to escort her to the bookseller’s. No matter how Roger and society in general would understand her refusal, this was no coquettish device. She really wanted to be alone for a time to think.

  The beauty and order of the house in the Royal Crescent welcomed her; and her room, serene with its green and white striped wallpaper, gold-draped white French bed, and silk-skirted dressing table, was the perfect place to try to order her thoughts. Even in one day she could see that Bath offered the amusement she sought, but how did she reconcile this to the values of her home in Wells?

  If she must choose among the stolid boredom of a country life, the charming but superficial pleasures of the fashionable world, or the long-faced religion of an enthusiast like the Countess of Huntingdon, it all seemed a rather hopeless lot.

  Then she thought of the humorous moments of the day and her frown turned to a smile. She suddenly wished that Rowland could have been there to share her amusement. At the same time, she was glad he wasn’t. What would he think of the company she had chosen?

  In the days that followed, Mary had little time for reflection. With Roger Twysden as her constant companion, she became well acquainted with his uncle, the bishop, who was a close friend of Mrs. Child’s. Any time a doubt prickled her mind about the attitudes of the bright company Sarah Child gathered around herself, Mary could readily salve her conscience with the thought that, after all, a bishop was among the number.

  The only real cloud to her happiness appeared the following week when she and Elizabeth returned from making the rounds of shops in Milsom Street with two footmen following behind carrying parcels of the finest of spangle-embroidered fans, kid gloves, silk mesh mittens, and satin ribbons.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth picked up the post Benson had placed on the hall table. “A letter from my sister Jane! I haven’t heard news of Hawkstone for ages. Come to my room, Mary, and let me share it with you. Send up a tea tray, Benson.”

  But as soon as Elizabeth opened her letter, her face fell. “Mary, I fear the news is not good. Jane has received a letter from our Rowland. He has been much in the furnace these past weeks.”

  Mary instantly felt a pang of shame for the mindless gaiety of her last few days while her friend had been suffering.

  “Jane has copied out part of Rowland’s letter. Shall I read it to you?”

  Mary nodded, her eyes wide.

  The Master said I might stay in university provided I would not disturb the town by public conventicles; and would also give him a promise not to teach in the university any doctrine contrary to the Thirty-Nine Articles. To the former, I answered I had no intention of doing so, as I had told him before; and though I could safely give him a promise to the latter in the absolute, if he really meant that I should not talk about religion to the gownsmen, as I supposed he did, I could make no such promise.

  Elizabeth paused for a sip of tea, then shook her head. “I cannot bear to think what it will mean if he is forced to leave the university just two months before degrees are awarded. It w
ould be a disaster for Rowland, but it would kill our parents. Such a thing is unthinkable.”

  She picked up the letter, read a bit in silence, and then put it down again with a sigh. “More bad news. The authorities at Oxford have expelled six undergraduates who believe as Rowland does, but did not so much as preach publicly. What will Cambridge do to one so outspoken as our brother? I tried to warn him when I saw him at Wells. He must give this up! Enthusiasm in religion is social suicide.”

  Mary nodded unhappily. She had spoken to Bishop Twysden on the subject only that morning—in veiled terms, of course, so he could not guess her reason. The bishop had been outraged. “Mad men, the lot of them. Believe we are all sinners, and God will punish us. Such ideas won’t hold today. Much too enlightened for that. Of course, it’s in the prayer book, but that’s just tradition; nobody really listens to it.”

  Mary took a long sip of tea. Who was right? Rowland was prepared to put his entire career and future success on the line for his faith. The countess had devoted her life and private fortune to promoting personal religion. Yet who should be a better guide in spiritual matters than a bishop? Sarah was perfectly happy without any notions of a personal God. Roger was a delightful companion of the first fashion, and as the nephew of a bishop, he surely had proper instructions in all matters of the church.

  And what difference did it all make anyway? She had been baptized as an infant, confirmed as a child, and had attended services regularly with more devotion than most. Surely that was sufficient. If poor Rowland was determined to be stubborn, she would simply have to consign him to his chosen fate. Other than listening to Elizabeth’s worries, it needn’t affect her. What concern was it to her what Elizabeth’s brother chose to do?

  Four

  At Cambridge, still awaiting the fateful decision of the Master of his college, Rowland struggled over the composition of a letter to his sister Jane. But before he started putting his thoughts into words, he pulled a small packet of letters from his desk—letters of encouragement he had received from George Whitefield. Rowland was glad anew that he had kept the letters. The great preacher had died in America two years earlier. Rowland missed him sorely.