Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Page 4

  “Funds to build the chapel in Wales are lagging sadly.” The duchess shook her lace-capped head. “But we have had our greatest success with the local chapter of Mr. Wilberforce’s Society for Promoting the External Observance of the Lord’s Day and for the Suppression of Public Lewdness.”

  “That is a victory indeed, and it prospers in London as well,” Lady Harrowby added with obvious pleasure. “Only last week we were at dinner with Mr. Wilberforce, and he recalled that when the society was founded, a friend laughed in his face, agreeing that there was indeed a great deal of debauchery and very little religion, but that in a wealthy nation it would never be otherwise. The only way to reform morals, his friend contended, was to ruin purses. He said he could promise a speedy return of purity of morals if no one had a shilling to spend in debauchery. It seems that Providence has seen fit to grant that it be otherwise.”

  Georgiana’s plate had long grown empty and her coffee cold when Nixon, the butler, appeared to inform the duchess of the arrival of the Honorable Mr. Agar-Ellis. She looked at her daughter for guidance. Georgiana started to shake her head and then looked across the table where Granville and Charlotte were deep in conversation with their heads bent together. “Please ask him to wait in the octagon room. I will join him shortly.”

  The duchess nodded at Nixon, who departed with a bow.

  Georgiana ran quickly to her dressing room where Agatha helped her change from her riding habit into an afternoon dress of soft lavender gray with a padded rouleau at the bottom. A few moments later she entered the octagonal vestibule.

  George, who had been waiting in the company of the footman on duty, rose from the sofa and bowed deeply over her hand. “Lady Georgiana, may I beg you to be so kind as to permit me to say that even in so light and charming a room as this, where nothing distracts the eye from the proportions and the beauty of the plasterwork, you are the finest ornament.”

  Georgiana smiled at his flowery speech, but had to struggle to contain her amusement at his florid attire of belcher tie, striped waistcoat, and yellow pantaloons. “Thank you, George. I see you are in fine mettle today. My mama is engaged with her sister’s family, so I am receiving you for her.”

  “I am disappointed to hear that your mother is occupied. I had hoped to invite Her Grace and yourself to take the air in my carriage. I am greatly pleased with my new pair of matched grays. I’ll wager you’ve never seen a pair of sweeter goers. May I hope to prevail upon you to accompany me?” George bowed deeply again.

  With a fleeting thought of Granville’s head bent attentively toward Charlotte, Georgiana consented and even allowed her maid to fetch her poke bonnet trimmed with ostrich plumes.

  They drove through Badminton Park where a few hours earlier Granville and Georgiana had ridden, then out into the ancient village of Little Badminton with its dovecote dating back to the Battle of Hastings. The road wound between cottages of Cotswold stone, their floral-riot gardens enclosed by low walls at the very edge of the narrow road. As soon as they were clear of the village, George dropped his hands, and the grays sprang to a sharp canter beneath the leafy trees vaulting the road. They drove under an ancient arched bridge built by the Romans and along the road to Acton Turville. Cows lay contented in green pastures near stone barns ringed with trees.

  Here and there they caught glimpses of the narrow Avon River as it wound through green fields beginning to show their autumn hues. Overhead lacy branches dropped an occasional golden leaf on them, inspiring George to break into a poetic quotation:

  Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade…

  Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield…

  Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

  Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

  Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

  The short and simple annals of the Poor.

  Georgiana surveyed the trees that had called forth such transports. “I believe they are oaks and beeches, sir.”

  He ignored her comment. “Such lines can never fail to move the hearer. It is little wonder that Gray was Walpole’s favorite poet.”

  Georgiana deemed it best to allow her escort to continue his poetic meditations as she settled into the corner of the seat and studied the driver while he concentrated on handling the reins in his expert way. George James Welbore Agar-Ellis, in spite of his exaggerated affectations, was a kind and considerate companion. By his frequent attentions, he seemed to be making it clear to her that she would soon be called upon to voice her opinion of him—of her willingness to accept him as something far more than a companion.

  She had no doubt as to his suitability as a husband in matters of family and class; and even though his appearance and conversation seemed to place him in that group of acquaintances Georgiana censured for their shallowness, in truth he erred on the side of earnestness. Besides his study of Horace Walpole, he was compiling a historical monograph on Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor of England. At the same time he was writing a fictional work which he called The True History of the State Prisoner, but most often he referred to it as The Iron Mask. Further, his Catalogue of the Principal Pictures in Flanders and Holland had been published the year before, and, so successful was it, that his publishers were already talking about bringing out another edition.

  No, she couldn’t fault his family or his mind or his manners—at least the sincerity of them. Still, Georgiana could not feel happy at the prospect of receiving an offer from Mr. Agar-Ellis. Whatever her answer, the results would be unhappy. Giving a final blow to his feelings seemed almost as unpleasant as the thought of spending the rest of her life with him.

  Ultimately, her decision would rest on the fact that George lacked the one quality absolutely essential for her in a life’s mate. For all his outward adherence to the doctrines and practices of the established church, he did not share her faith in a personal God. Georgiana had often seen the pain her mother had endured when members of their social circle snubbed her for her evangelical activities and labeled her an “enthusiast” behind their fans.

  No, Georgiana could not settle for a husband who did not share her beliefs. But that did not mean they couldn’t share a pleasant ride.

  “How is your work on the letters of Horace Walpole progressing?” she finally asked.

  “How obliging of you to inquire.” Georgiana felt certain that if it had been possible to do so on the seat of a phaeton, he would have made a deep bow. “Collecting the letters of one who carried on so wide a correspondence is no small task, but I am determined to prevail. I have recently acquired a delightful missive which the Earl of Orford wrote to Miss Mary Berry and another in his own hand to the Countess of Upper Ossory; but I fear the task is far, far from complete. I am determined, however, to bring to the world a complete edition of the incomparable letters of this prince of epistolary writers. I am persuaded that when presented in chronological order, the series shall form a lively commentary on the events of the age.

  “Those are admirable goals. I heartily wish you well.” She spoke sincerely.

  “My Lady is too kind. Your regard is one I hold near to my heart. As for my humble literary efforts, I attempt as always to do my part diligently, judiciously, and without the slightest ostentation.”

  “Your sentiments are indeed worthy.” Georgiana was pleased that she had managed to conduct the entire exchange with a perfectly straight face. Hurting the feelings of one so sincere in his efforts was a thing she would never wish to do.

  Four

  At the same time George’s matched grays were stepping through Badminton Park, breakfast ended in the dining room inside Badminton House. The company rose. The duchess led the way from the room to take her sister and elder daughter for a turn around the gardens where the younger Somerset daughters were enjoying a break from the tyranny of an aging Miss Primrose and the schoolroom. Granville was handing Lady Charlotte her light cashmere shawl and receiving a pretty smile in return when the earl approa
ched his son. “I shall await you in the library.” Harrowby turned on his heel and left the room by the side door.

  Feeling like a small boy called on the carpet, Granville escorted the ladies to the terrace, then made his way through the Red Room to the library. Beneath the portrait of John of Gaunt, fourteenth-century founder of the Somerset family, a fire burned on the grate. No dampness could be permitted to damage the extensive and valuable collection of the Badminton library. The polished dark woodwork and the richly embossed leather bindings of the books glowed from the sun shining through the beveled glass of the long eastern windows. But the glow failed to reach Granville’s spirit.

  The earl, dressed conservatively, as befit his age and position, in a frock coat with a velvet collar, black knee breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes, sat in a high-backed Chinese Chippendale chair at one side of the fireplace. Granville felt uncomfortably out of place in his riding attire. He stood stiffly before his father, his hands clasped behind his back, a level gaze focused just above his father’s eyes.

  “Sit down, Granville.” The earl rubbed his temple briefly with the fingers of his right hand.

  Granville would have preferred to stand, but he sat. “Have you a headache, sir?”

  “It is nothing.” The earl hastily removed his hand from his brow and cleared his throat “Well, you are no longer in His Majesty’s Navy. What do you propose to do with yourself now?” The fire chased any hint of chill from the room but not from the earl’s voice.

  “I do not know, Father,” Granville answered levelly, refusing to avert his gaze.

  The earl drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You do not know what you wish to do?” The tone was tart. “You were in a position where you could be sure of employment, and you could be sure of rising high. I do not understand how you could turn your back on this. It is as incomprehensible as if Sandon had suddenly resigned his seat in Parliament.

  “It is indeed heavy to me that my son should have failed to uphold the tradition of young men of his class who enter the navy and show themselves to be of good stuff, who bend to the task with a will, contrive to master the intricacies of their profession, and win credit both for themselves and for those humbler officers who taught them. You have failed to prove yourself worthy of your class and of your office.”

  “Perhaps, sir, the problem lies in striving to prove something that doesn’t exist.”

  “Nonsense. You are a Ryder. Now what do you intend to do about it?”

  “I had thought of taking on some of the estate duties. With Sandon occupied in London—” The mention of his brilliant older brother now filling the seat for the family borough of Tiverton in the House of Commons was a misstep.

  “And do you intend to take your proper place as a member of the family in compassionate work?”

  “Sir?” The earl had lowered his voice, causing Granville to lean forward.

  Replying in considerably greater volume than necessary, Lord Harrowby thundered, “Compassionate work. What do you intend to do about your responsibility there?”

  Granville paused so long the earl started to repeat the question, but Granville held up his hand. “I heard you, Father. I have given the subject considerable thought—perhaps the Duke of Gloucester’s Marine Society. I understand there is interest in founding a Royal Lifeboat Institution to improve safety at sea. But…”

  “But?” Lord Harrowby cut impatiently into the pause.

  “But I should like first to feel that I am, as you say, worthy of doing religious and compassionate work, sir.”

  A long silence declared the conversation at an end. The earl rose silently, as did his son. The men exchanged brief bows and the earl strode from the room. Granville sank into an armchair near a window. It was not the curt tone of his father’s words that stung him to the quick, but their truth.

  By choosing to leave the navy, Granville had admitted to yet another failure. Since his earliest days, he had been surrounded by people who shone like stars in the firmament. His father, as President of the Council, was one of the most influential men in England. His Uncle Henry, the first evangelical clergyman to be appointed to the bishopric, was now stirring the nation in controversy over further elevation. His elder brother, Dudley, Viscount Sandon, who had always been able to outrun, outride, and outfight him, was making such a success of his career in Parliament that he was being talked of as the next First Lord of the Admiralty. His cousin, Henry, the Marquess of Worcester, had earned a special place in Wellington’s affection as aide-de-camp and was now serving in Parliament.

  And this list didn’t begin to touch on the renowned charitable work of both families, but it was all that he could cope with. He had little doubt of his ability to carve a niche for himself in the everyday world. The thing he found overwhelmingly deflating was the spiritual confidence of those around him. How could they be so sure they were right with God—sure of their acceptability to Him?

  From earliest days Granville had tried to be a good, obedient son, to do all that man and God required of him. But how could he ever know when he had done enough—when he was good enough for acceptance by God? When could he know if he merited salvation?

  He had found no answers in the navy. Where would he seek them next? Almighty God, if You are here and deign to hear me, show me how to find You. I am groping in the dark; give me the light of your assurance.

  He sat long gazing across the lawn toward the park until he heard the sound of carriage wheels on gravel. He stepped to the window admiring the matched grays pulling the phaeton into the drive; but when he saw the elegant young man Georgiana had danced with the night before escort her from the carriage with an air of great solicitude, a frown creased his forehead.

  Georgiana glimpsed her cousin in the library window and saw his troubled look. All pleasure she had felt in the ride with Mr. Agar-Ellis vanished. She took hurried leave of him and went in search of her mother. The duchess was just entering the yellow drawing room that served as her private parlor.

  “Are you occupied, Mama?”

  “Never too busy for you, my dear. Come in.” They sat in a pair of yellow upholstered chairs before a carved mahogany cabinet made by Thomas Chippendale. “My sister has gone for a short lie-down. I thought I might attempt a bit of correspondence. I am always so far behind with it. But I would much rather talk with you. You look uneasy, dear. What is it?”

  Georgiana sighed, as much to express the comfort of being able to bare her heart to her mother as to show her concern. “It’s Gran. We were such close companions as children, and now I find I hardly know him. He seems troubled. This morning we rode in the park, and he said all manner of nonsensical things to me about his inability to please his father. But the worst was last night when he hinted at feeling spiritually inadequate. How can that be? He is everything that is most amiable. Can’t he see that he has no need of improvement to be acceptable to God or to his father—or to anyone else?”

  “Even the vilest sinner has no need of improvement to be acceptable to God.”

  Her mother’s theological answer irritated Georgiana. “Yes, yes. I know! But why can’t Gran understand that? Oh, I most desperately want him to be happy. He was such a lighthearted boy. We had such fun together—why cannot life remain so? Why must everything get so complicated?”

  “One cannot forever remain childhood friends—no matter how dear. And irritations that seem small at the time, when often repeated, can add up to a powerful influence—a harsh, demanding father, a brilliant, overshadowing older brother, a difficulty in hearing that puts one at a slight social disadvantage… as I so well know.” The duchess opened the hand she held to her ear to exhibit the small, shell-like hearing device that had been invented for her by her friend Charles Simeon. It was a great convenience because it could be held in her palm and put to her ear whenever needed.

  But Georgiana wasn’t interested in Mr. Simeon’s inventiveness. “Oh, I’d never thought of all that. It must be awful feeling you
are never quite—well, quite up to snuff.” She rose and began walking around the room with small, jerky steps. “But that’s ridiculous! Can’t he see what an absolutely superb person he is?”

  “No, my dear. None of us can truly see ourselves. Your cousin sees himself in the mirror his father has always held up to him and measures himself by his brother’s achievements. Even before you were born, I recall seeing Granville toddle along after Sandon absolutely adoring him. But Sandon had no time for him, found him irritating, especially since Gran’s slight deafness obliged him to repeat things.”

  “But Gran is worth a dozen of Sandon in so many ways!” In her agitation Georgiana’s voice rose to a high pitch.

  “Yes, Georgiana, you and I know that, but Granville does not. Of course, the fact that he is so oblivious to his charms is one of the most winning things about him, but it leaves him even more vulnerable.”

  “I still don’t understand why this should cause a spiritual problem. Gran has been raised in the way of true Christianity as carefully as I…” She choked and turned her back to her mother. “I couldn’t bear to see Gran…” She was unable to finish.

  “It must be very difficult to feel accepted by one’s Heavenly Father if one doesn’t feel satisfactory to an earthly father. Georgiana, you need to realize that spirituality doesn’t come as easily to everyone as it does for you. I thank God that from your youngest days faith has been your gift—for yourself and to help others. But many people, like Granville, have to struggle to find their own place. If you would help your cousin, you must have two things.”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Faith and patience.”

  Georgiana grimaced. “Patience?”

  The duchess smiled. “Ah, you noticed that I did not say patience was your gift. Calm waiting is never easy, especially in youth. But I have never forgotten the lesson I learned from Mr. Simeon when I was tempted to impatience with the behavior of others: ‘Let us sit upon the seat of love instead of judgment,’ he said. Can you find it in your heart to do that, daughter?”