Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Page 6

  Granville shrugged, picked up a glass of the fiery Black Strap port, and joined in the toast to the superiority of gown over town.

  The bumpers were refilled, and toasts went around again, this time drinking the health of everyone present—some twice. A large bowl of creamy milk punch had just been presented to the company when Granville’s stairmate appeared at the door.

  Granville groaned and shook his already light head. He couldn’t meet Charles Simeon reeking of port. Besides, he didn’t want to break up Somerville’s party now. “Thank you for coming by, Andy, but I’m sure you shall get on very well without me.”

  “Well done, Ryder,” Freddie said when Andrew Anderson’s back disappeared down the hall. “Rackety notion, that. Knew you didn’t mean it.” Granville gave Perkins an ambivalent smile.

  The party moved on to Merry Somerville’s rooms where they were joined by a number of other guests. For a couple of hours, a sedate game of whist occupied the gownsmen, interrupted only by the occasional call for breaking out one more cool bottle of port from the sawdust-packed locker under the window.

  “Ah, now that’s port, alcoholed and talkative.” William Hervey laid his cards on the table to savor his drink more fully.

  From an adjoining table Frank Molyneaux raised his glass. “Port—the Englishman’s wine. Else, how could we have beat the French?”

  Granville sipped his wine. No one commented on his silence. Even in his short time at Cambridge, his reputation was established—older, quieter, more contemplative, inclined to take life seriously. Although not popular qualities, they were accepted in a nobleman’s son returned from service in the Royal Navy.

  Somerville’s gyp announced that supper was laid out in the next room. Their host, who made no secret of the fact that his kitchen bills were frightful, had provided roast lamb and salad as the centerpiece, and down the table were as many dishes as Lawrence, their cook, could crowd in from the college kitchen. A fine Stilton cheese crowned the repast.

  At ten o’clock Club officially ended. Now the serious gaming could begin. Two faro banks offered play, and six or seven gownsmen at each table began placing their bets, some with carefree insouciance and others with earnest solemnity. Granville took a place at the nearest table. “Stakes, gentlemen,” directed Somerville, presiding as banker at this table since he had put up the largest stake.

  The players signaled their bets by placing chips on the layout of the spade suit across the table. For a moment Granville sat abstractedly as the question flitted through his mind, What am I doing here?

  “Come on, Granny. You playing or not?”

  Hastily Granville placed his chips on the six and waited for the dealer to turn up his cards.

  “Two of hearts,” Somerville announced. This card was soda and had no bearing on the bets.

  Somerville turned up another card and placed it face up on his right. “Jack of spades. Jacks lose.” He triumphantly scooped Lord Hervey’s chips into the bank.

  The next card would win the turn. Granville glanced carelessly at the table. Not a gamester at heart, he found the whole thing a bit of a bore. “Ten wins.” The banker handed a stack of chips to the grinning Frank Molyneaux. Since neither card turned up had been a six, Granville’s bet stood. He could let it ride or cancel it by placing a copper on top of his chips.

  The deal continued. Granville had not coppered his bet. He lost on the turn of the second card. The gyp was handing around drinks again, somewhat unsteadily, Granville noticed, as if he had already handed rather too many to himself. His bald head shining with perspiration seemed to wobble precariously on the thin neck sticking out of his high, stiff collar.

  With studied casualness, Frank staked two rouleaux of guineas on the turn of the next card. Granville would have liked to decline hazarding anything. He was not a lucky punter and was already feeling a bit dipped. Though high in social status, the Earl of Harrowby was not a wealthy man, and the large sums he donated to worthy causes diminished his own bank account. His son’s allowance was not large.

  “Dash it all, I’m no gamester.” Granville spoke almost under his breath, wondering briefly what was taking place now in Mr. Simeon’s rooms in the Gibbs Building. Still, in response to a sharp nudge from William seated next to him, Granville placed his bet.

  He continued to play cautiously for a while and then grew bolder. Finally, the atmosphere captivated him, and he began to relax. He won a little, lost a large bet, refilled his glass. As the fumes of cheroots mingled with the claret, his absorption increased, and so did the size of his wagers. “Ten chips on the queen.”

  Money and chips clinked metallically. Occasionally a player’s dog, lying obediently at its master’s feet, would growl as a scraping chair disturbed his sleep. There were sharp cries of “Split” as a dealer took all the bets on a rank, or moans of “Dipped again. Gyp, refill!” as an unlucky player drowned his disappointment over losses.

  Dawn had rimmed the sky with gold by the time Granville and Freddie made their way to their rooms. “Pockets to let, and the quarter ain’t half over!” Freddie laughed loudly in the still morning air.

  “Perkins, you’re foxed.” Granville attempted to quiet his companion.

  “No, I ain’t. Trifle bosky maybe. That don’t signify. Thing is how I’m to get more of the ready from my trustees.”

  They parted company at Freddie’s staircase. Granville tiptoed on so as not to disturb the elderly John Henry Rennard, the bachelor clergyman, Trinity fellow, and vice-master who occupied the rooms below Granville nor to let the devout Andrew Anderson upstairs know the outcome of his misspent evening.

  Too far gone to engage in conscience-searching, Granville pulled off his boots and rolled into bed without a thought of the harsh looks he would draw from his gyp on the morrow. Or, far more serious, the harsh scolding he would give himself.

  Six

  The sun was at its apex when Granville awoke to the certainty that he had never before known what a headache was. At his rather unsteady ring, Creighton appeared with what should have been his master’s morning coffee and, as silent witness to the late hour, the post.

  Granville picked up the letter and blinked to clear his vision. A London postmark. Ah, yes, his aunt had promised to send him an account of their move to town. But the handwriting did not belong to the duchess.

  January

  Dear Coz,

  I think it very uncivil of you not to write to me first. As you never do anything I like, however, I should not be surprised at your not beginning our correspondence.

  I am depriving myself of a walk to write to you, but you must not become puffed up taking the credit to yourself. As my mama is engaged in making calls, I sat down to fulfill her promise of writing to you, though I fear I shall not entertain you half so well as she. I will only say that I have grown to be quite a fine lady, for I have been out almost every evening of late—we have seen The School for Scandal and Robinson Crusoe; and to complete all, I believe that soon I shall have the honor of admiring the much celebrated dancing of La Trainon at the opera.

  But, alas, I have no ball to give you an account of. Monday evening when I thought myself secure, I received a note from Lady York to say that Lord York was taken so ill of a fever that she was obliged to put off the dance till the twenty-second, when most probably Papa and Mama will be out of town, so my expectations on that side are disappointed.

  But you mustn’t think me all frivolity. I am reading a most excellent volume published by J. Downing in Bartholomew Close entitled Acquaintance with God. I should be happy to send it on to you, but as you are already in the saintly company of such men as Charles Simeon, I refrain from sending coals to Newcastle.

  Papa & Mama send their love to you.

  My pen is so bad that I absolutely cannot write anymore, and if you are not satisfied with this, you are an ungrateful and perverse boy, however, at all events I am

  Yr. affect cousin,

  G. Somerset

  P. S. I wish
you would send me word soon how you are.

  Granville sipped his cooling coffee as charming images of his cousin flitted before his vision. He examined his unaccountable pleasure in remembering her voice and his inexplicable, if churlish, pleasure in hearing that she had attended no London balls. The thought of Georgiana dancing in the arms of London’s society bucks and various pinks of the ton disturbed him more than he wished to contemplate.

  But what would she think if she knew how he was spending his time? “Send me word soon how you are.” She expected to hear of his studies and his fellowship with godly men. What could he possibly reply to her?

  He stared long at the letter, his mouth tightening like a man in pain. Even if he had abandoned his halfhearted attempts at gaining merit in God’s eyes, perhaps he could at least gain esteem in his cousin’s.

  On the following Friday, with the vision of Georgiana fixed firmly in his mind, Granville determined to attend Mr. Simeon’s party—in spite of Freddie Perkins’s protests.

  “But, Ryder! You can’t have considered. Never know what you may come to. Look at me! Always swore I’d join a regiment rather than go to Cambridge, but I passed those cursed smalls. Can’t think how I did it. Careless of me. So here I am with a deuced crammie on my back hounding me to study all the time. Now what if it’d been religion?” He shook his head at the thought. “No. It really won’t do.”

  Once firmly resolved on a course, however, Granville was unshakable. He had been told that all who accepted Mr. Simeon’s invitation should arrive punctually directly after dinner so as to avoid commotion in the room after Simeon had taken his seat. Indeed, when Granville arrived at ten minutes of the hour, sixty-nine gownsmen were already seated on chairs and benches arranged around the parlor. Some guests even found seats in the recesses of the windows.

  When Granville was introduced to the venerable minister, Mr. Simeon bowed cordially. Simeon had just written, “The Honorable Granville Ryder, Trinity,” in the little black memorandum book in which he recorded the introduction of any stranger, when they both became aware that Granville had stamped his bootprints in fine ochre sand upon Mr. Simeon’s dark carpet.

  Simeon led the offender back into the passage and asked with twinkling eyes, “Mr. Ryder, what more could I do than put down such an array of mats as you here see in order to give a hint or to offer a way to preserve my carpet from the yellow gravel which my visitors’ shoes catch up?”

  Granville smiled and returned Simeon’s slight bow. “Sir, I do apologize for my unthinking slovenliness.” He scraped his boots with vigor.

  Simeon’s famous affectionate smile appeared more in his eyes than on his lips and seemed to soften even his pointed nose and chin. He offered his hand and spoke with courtly polish. “My brother, I do love to see a clean carpet.”

  When Granville’s footwear was sufficiently free of the bright buff gravel, he took his place on a bench near the door, which was cleared for him when Andrew Anderson motioned for several gownsmen to move closer together.

  Mr. Simeon sat on a stool by the right side of the fireplace in full view of the young men around him. He rubbed his hands together like a child clapping in glee. Two servants began handing tea around, and the conversation party was officially open. Gownsmen on the crowded benches quietly sipped their tea as every eye turned to Mr. Simeon and every ear tuned with expectancy.

  Granville soon realized that the questions came from only a few of the guests. By a kind of tacit understanding, it seemed that the conversation was to be as much as possible left to Simeon himself. Also, one or two members served as spokesmen for their more nervous friends.

  Granville noticed a thin-faced young man tug at the sleeve of a questioner and whisper in his ear. The question dealt with the place of exercise and recreation in a serious student’s schedule.

  “I always say to my young friends that your success in the Senate House exams depends much on the care you take of the three-mile stone out of Cambridge. If you go every day and see that nobody has taken it away and go quite round it to watch lest anyone has damaged its farthest side, you will be best able to read steadily all the time you are at Cambridge. If you neglect it, woe betide your degree. Yes, exercise—constant, regular, and ample—is absolutely essential to a reading man’s success.”

  The guests laughed appreciatively. Most of the gownsmen who filled the room were candidates for holy orders—younger sons like Granville whose older brothers would be inheriting the family estates. For them the church would provide a living. They were sent up to Cambridge to prepare for the ministry with classical studies and mathematics. From a fellow-feeling for these young men who, like himself in 1782, were put into the pulpit without the remotest idea how to set about preaching, Simeon had conceived the singular notion that ministers of the Word of God needed spiritual grounding. He took it upon himself, at first much to the consternation of the fellows of the university, to provide this instruction.

  The questions turned theological. Granville, listening earnestly, found much to think upon. “How long and uphill and often very bewildering is the road to God in most men’s experience,” Simeon said. Just then the sound of carriage wheels on the cobblestone street beyond the screen of King’s courtyard reminded Granville of his friends gathered tonight in Frank Molyneaux’s rooms. He wondered if his struggle was not up a steeper hill than most because of his repeated failures to please God and man.

  He looked at the others in the room, contrasting them with his livelier friends. Which did he want to be like? Which could he be like? He didn’t seem to fit in either group, just as he hadn’t truly fit in the navy—in spite of his outward success there. Nor did he fit in his family’s circle of political and compassionate achievement.

  Simeon’s gentle voice penetrated Granville’s thoughts. “We may as well try to examine microscopic insects with the naked eye as try to see divine truth without faith. Men see themselves too near; they see divine truth too far.”

  True thought Granville, too far for me to reach.

  “Our best works afford cause for humiliation; all our actions afford this. But our worst deeds afford no ground for discouragement in seeking mercy. No, not our mightiest sins.”

  No discouragement? Easy for him to say. He doesn’t know how many times I’ve failed.

  “But he who believes in Jesus Christ shall be saved by grace.” Mr. Simeon accompanied his statement with an animated gesture which, though somewhat exaggerated, compelled attention and respect.

  One clever young clergyman talked dogmatically, trying to set everybody right. He asked flippant questions. “Mr. Simeon, Christ told the rich young ruler to sell all he had and give to the poor. Do you teach this?” He directed his gaze at the delicate gold marble-topped tables, prized possessions bequeathed to Simeon by a deceased friend.

  Mr. Simeon spoke quietly. “Young man, have you learned the difference yet between the spirit of wisdom and the spirit of knowledge?”

  The challenger was silenced.

  Granville allowed his mind to wander as the company explored a theological technicality. Then his attention came sharply back when Simeon said, “The truth is, we will be seeking for some goodness in ourselves or for less sin in ourselves as a ground of hope with which to come to Christ. We think we must do something for salvation. That is but the spirit of pride. We will not allow ourselves to be saved by Christ alone.

  “But remember, it is not what you do yourself. ‘It is God who works in you, inspiring both the will and the deed, for His own chosen purposes.’

  “And now may the grace of God and of Jesus Christ our Lord go with you.”

  The hour was up. Granville would have liked to hear more, but Simeon was on his feet. “I love these little conversation meetings; they diffuse a spirit of love amongst us. I would that I could have them oftener, but I must be glad to do just what I can. These meetings seem to me somewhat a foretaste of Heaven.” He dismissed his flock.

  It was said of Simeon that all Cambridge
was filled with the belief and love of the truth that he preached. Although Granville knew many an exception to that statement, he examined its application to himself. After some thought as he walked slowly back to his rooms, he concluded that the closest he could come would be to say that he would love to believe that what Simeon preached was the truth. But he knew such halfhearted acceptance wasn’t enough.

  Later when he tried to pen an answer to Georgiana’s letter, he knew that would not be enough for her either. He crumpled his blotted writing paper in disgust.

  Why should it matter so much? None of his friends worried about such things. Freddie Perkins, Merry Somerville, Frank Molyneaux, William Hervey—none of them wasted time in despondent soul-searching, and they seemed to be better off for it. What he needed was to relax, forget the standard set by his family, forget the expectations of his golden-haired cousin, forget the dejection in his own soul, and enjoy his university days as they were meant to be. After all, he didn’t feel any better after the evening at Charles Simeon’s. If such a virtuous act as spending a whole evening talking about religion didn’t help, what would? Why should he bother?

  The relief of this thought flooded his tense body. A smile crossed his face. Relax. Give up the struggle. Accept things as they are. That was the ticket.

  Seven

  Georgiana sat at the writing desk in the yellow parlor, the morning sunshine flooding through the long windows and filling the room with a cheer she did not feel. Summer was now past, and she had received no reply to the letter she had sent Granville months ago. Through all that time she had suffered many emotional ups and downs, wavering between compassion for his struggles and pique at his ignoring her. And always came the slight fear that his silence meant he didn’t care. At the times when that emotion controlled, she saw again his tanned darkness bending toward Charlotte’s ivory paleness. Though she dearly loved her sister, she knew the bitter taste of jealousy.