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

  Rowland accepted his sister’s invitation before bowing his farewell to the ladies.

  Elizabeth turned to Mary. “And what of you, my dear? Will you join our party tonight?”

  For a moment Mary was tempted. Then she stiffened in her resolve. Rowland must not think her softened to his nonconformist ideas. “Thank you, Elizabeth, but I have engaged to join the Childs’ party to the cotillion ball in the Upper Rooms.”

  When Mary and Sarah formed the plan, an evening at the ball had seemed the height of bliss. But now as Elizabeth left Mary to see to the arrangements for the evening, Mary felt strangely depressed.

  And later that night, when she returned at eleven o’clock with Roger’s meaningful stares and sometimes ribald witticisms fresh in her mind, she was even more depressed. Especially when Elizabeth came in to inquire how she was and went into raptures over the enticements of the gardens with their shady groves, grottoes, labyrinths, and waterfalls. “And the illuminations, my dear. It’s quite marvelous how they contrive to light the trees and borders. It all gives the effect of giant fireflies or of stars having come down to rest in the branches.

  “And we had the most excellent company. Lady Selina was ever so charming in her quiet way. Have you noticed how remarkable she is? She always thinks of others first, and yet she never makes one uneasy with it. Most people merely call attention to themselves by such modesty.”

  Elizabeth paused in her recital to kiss her sister-in-law good night. “I’m pleased you had a pleasant evening, dear.”

  Mary merely nodded in reply. She had had a delightful evening. Had she not?

  “We breakfast at Spring Gardens in the morning. Will you go with us?”

  Mary’s peevishness almost made her refuse, but just in time her common sense prevailed, and she accepted.

  The next morning, clad in her most charming straw bonnet decorated with cherry ribbons and bobbin lace and wearing a levette, a simple loose gown with a sash cut from silk of shaded pink and crimson stripes on a ground of pale cream, Mary rode in the carriage with her mother, Elizabeth, and Clement to the dock. There they awaited a ferry to take them to the gardens across the River Avon.

  In spite of her confused feelings about Rowland, Elizabeth was determined that her smile should match the brightness of the morning. When they first met those from the countess’s party, Mary felt the barrier of Rowland’s new coldness. But then the countess, who had surprised everyone by accepting Elizabeth’s invitation, prodded him between the shoulders with her walking stick. “Rowly, offer Miss Tudway your arm.” And Mary could see his irrepressible humor conquer his reluctance.

  “At your service, Miss Tudway.” He bowed deeply, and very gracefully, she noted, and extended his hand, Mary placed hers atop his, and stepped onto the gently rocking ferry boat behind Lady Selina, likewise holding Colonel Hastings’s hand for support.

  As Selina and her colonel took seats in front of Mary and Rowland in the ferry, Mary considered the pair and the happy future in store for them. According to Elizabeth’s report, Colonel George Hastings, two years Lady Selina’s senior, had been brought up with her elder brother under the Earl of Huntingdon’s care at Donnington Park, their family seat, so that their present friendship was based on a lifetime of companionship.

  As Francis, Earl of Huntingdon, had shown little inclination to marry, and as Colonel Hastings’s elder brother was childless, it was possible that Colonel Hastings would succeed to the earldom of Huntingdon, and there would be a second Selina, Countess of Huntingdon.

  But what meant even more to Mary was the adoring gleam in the military man’s eyes when he looked at Lady Selina and the charming, almost shy manner in which she returned his regard. It seemed a glow of gentle happiness surrounded the couple. The blissful ending Mary pictured for the couple made her smile and reflect that it couldn’t befall two nicer people.

  Midway across the river, the strains of French horns and clarinets floated to them from the gardens. It did seem, indeed, that Spring Garden would live up to its intended purpose of providing a charming retreat for visitors to Bath. Mary’s heart rose and she looked forward to exploring the acres of walks, ponds and ornamental beds of flowers bordering the blue Avon she had been told of.

  The party made their way along the sweetly scented hyacinth-bordered path to the long room where breakfast was served. The invigorating atmosphere of fresh air, sparkling scenery, and pleasant companions encouraged Mary to approach the cakes and rolls and pots of chocolate with abandon. As they began to eat, they could not avoid overhearing the gossip from the party at the next table. “…and then Miss Braddock, enamored of such a complete rogue, spent £6,000 in paying his debts and lost both money and lover.” Tittered laughter accompanied the report.

  Lady Huntingdon’s voice cut sharply across their story, undoubtedly reaching tables beyond her own. “And they think it a matter for levity. Rogues, charlatans, mountebanks, and strumpets—that’s who are behind the pomp and elegant façade of this city. Just like that folly of Mr. Allen’s—Sham Castle, indeed! A great castle on a hill that’s nothing but a front to look at. Fah! That’s all these fribbles of society are—outward show with no thought for their eternal souls.

  “All about, one sees the vice, intrigue, and corruption of a society which values pleasure and luxury and nothing else—a jostling crowd of highborn and lowborn all engaged in a frantic round of pleasure and diversion. They should look to the healing of their souls rather than their bodies.”

  Elizabeth looked distinctly uncomfortable at this breakfast-table homily. In her unobtrusive way, Lady Selina signaled a footman to offer one of the plainer buns to her mother. The diversion was successful for only a few moments, however, as Lady Huntingdon’s determined chin rose, and her snapping eyes and sharp words compelled the company to her attention. “But judgment will not always be stayed, as in the case of the young man who dropped dead after dancing thirty-three couples in the Assembly Rooms. His partner fainted, but was at it again after being revived by spirit of hartshorn and tincture of tiddlen. She had another chance; but his soul was required of him that very night, as it someday will be of us all.”

  Having unburdened her soul, Her Ladyship at last turned her attention to her plate.

  “Would you prefer tea, Mama? I’m persuaded your chocolate must be quite cold.” Selina gave her mother a sweet smile and again signaled the footman.

  “You are my support and stay, Selina,” the countess said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. Then she turned to Elizabeth. “She is the only one I can rely on since my husband died and the young earl moved to London.” With a look of tenderness which Mary would not have supposed existed had she not seen it herself, the countess’s eyes filled with tears. Lady Selina again smiled at her mother, and the conversation around the table became general.

  By now Mary was aware of a slight tightness of her sash. She set her last cake aside unfinished, even though it contained her favorite almond paste filling.

  Lady Selina leaned toward her. “Would you care to take a turn through the parterre?”

  “Indeed. I find formal gardens most charming,” Mary quickly agreed.

  Colonel Hastings hurried to assist them with their chairs and was fumbling to hand the ladies their parasols when the countess’s voice rang sharply down the table, “Rowly!”

  His slow grin lighted his eyes, and he stepped to her chair. “You would care for a stroll, Milady?”

  “Indeed, I would not. For the son of a baronet, you are very slack in your duty to the young ladies.”

  Rowland bowed. “I thank Your Ladyship for reminding me of my duty.” He extended his hand, palm downward, to Mary.

  She took it in silence, but when they were out of hearing of the rest of the party, following several paces behind Lady Selina and the colonel, Mary said, “And would you care to explain why you have been avoiding me, sir?”

  Rowland gave a slight bow. “With pleasure, milady. I would not like to damage your social pos
ition by having it voiced abroad in this gossip-ridden town that you have taken up with an enthusiast.”

  Mary considered rapping his knuckles with her fan, but instead made do with a disdainful glance. “Do not be absurd. I have heard that Mr. Wesley’s sermons are very popular in town.”

  “Quite so. Above five thousand attended his first sermon here. But whether that is an indication of spiritual hunger or merely a desire for entertainment is uncertain. Wesley thought it unlikely the gospel could have a place where Satan’s throne sits so thoroughly entrenched.”

  “Satan’s throne?” Mary recalled the countess’s words at the breakfast table. “Surely that is an exaggeration.”

  “Perhaps. Wesley once said the people of Bath are all children of wrath, and their natural tempers are corrupt and abominable. The sheriff asked him on his next visit not to preach; but then the local authorities realized the effect of his work on the morals and the peace of the place, and a member of the city corporation presented him with a roasted ox.”

  “And do you expect your own irregular preaching to have such a happy outcome?”

  But Rowland would not be drawn to discussing his personal affairs. “Pray, what should I want with a roasted ox? But truth to tell, not all of Wesley’s confrontations went that well. You have no doubt heard of his encounter with Beau Nash?”

  “Indeed I have not.” Mary leaned closer to Rowland as if to hear a delicious titbit of gossip.

  “It seems that at the time when nothing occurred in Bath without the authority of the Master of Ceremonies, Beau Nash asked Wesley by what authority he was preaching. Wesley replied, ‘By that of Jesus Christ, conveyed to me by the present Archbishop of Canterbury, when he laid his hands upon me and said, “Take thou authority to preach the Gospel!’”

  Nash, however, protested that Wesley’s preaching was contrary to law, adding, ‘Besides, your preaching frightens people out of their wits.’

  “‘Sir, did you ever hear me preach?’ Wesley asked. The Beau replied that he had not. ‘How then can you judge of what you have never heard?’

  “‘By common report,’ Nash answered.

  “‘Sir, is not your name Nash? I dare not judge of the things I hear of you by common report!”’

  Mary looked up at Rowland, her brown eyes wide with interest. “Pray tell, what was the outcome?”

  “Nash accepted the challenge to hear Mr. Wesley and later commented that it was easy for the Methodists to preach extempore since they had a certain string of words and expressions that they consistently used on every subject. ‘It is such a string as must draw you to Heaven,’ Wesley replied, ‘if ever you intend to go there.’

  “‘I thank you,’ said Nash, ‘but I don’t choose to go to Heaven on a string.’”

  Rowland told the story with a lightness, but the fact that this one-time uncrowned king of Bath had now gone to his eternal reward added an unspoken gravity to the tale. The Beau was no longer ruling the aristocracy, but reaping the consequence of his choices. Mary walked quietly for some time, apparently admiring the bright spring flowers around the ponds; but she was really considering the story Rowland had told and the earlier words of the countess, in contrast to the life she had been leading.

  More immediately disturbing, however, was Rowland’s reticence to discuss his personal affairs. This was the same Rowland who had been her laughing companion on family occasions since childhood. Yet he accompanied her now only at the direct order of the countess and with the formality of a newly introduced stranger. She had seen flickers of amusement warm his eyes briefly in the past two days, but not once had his affectionate smile rested on her as in days gone by. He had come yesterday specifically to report that his troubles at the university were settled, but it was obvious that he was worried about something.

  Their rambling walk had taken them in a circular pattern, and they now were again approaching the long room when two familiar male figures appeared on the path in front of them. Roger and Westmoreland made sweeping bows, and Westmoreland, who possessed an alarming memory for poetry, greeted them with another snippet from the New Bath Guide:

  …and there all went,

  On purpose to honor this great entertainment;

  The company made a most brilliant appearance,

  And ate bread and butter with great perseverance;

  All the chocolate too that my lord set before ’em,

  The ladies despatch’d with the utmost decorum.

  “I trust you’ve had a pleasant breakfast, Miss Tudway.” Roger again swept an arch with his pale blue tricorn. “But it grieves me to find one of such tender sensibilities as you in the company of a noted irreligious.” He fixed Rowland with a challenging stare.

  Rowland remained expressionless at the taunt in the guise of a witticism, but Mary flew to his defense. “Irreligious! I beg your pardon, sir. Mr. Hill is exceeding religious! He’s fanatic in it.”

  “Ah, exactly so.” Roger smiled. “A regular fanatic—or is that irregular?”

  Mary drew herself up taller. “Not so! His preaching may be irregular, but—”

  At this point Rowland, his lip quivering with amusement, intervened. “Pray, Mary, cease defending me while I still have a shred of reputation left.”

  Again Roger bowed. “Forsooth, forgive me if I have offended. I had thought to compliment, but now I have quite lost track of the conversation.”

  “If you meant to say I am religious, I indeed take it as a compliment.” Rowland’s voice was mild.

  “As would your friend, Lady Huntingdon, I believe. My uncle informs me there is to be a celebration at the pope’s—er, that is, at Her Ladyship’s chapel. I think I shall attend; it would be great fun to sit in the Nicodemus chamber with Uncle.”

  Westmoreland called again on his ready store of poetry:

  Hearken, Lady Betty, hearken,

  to the dismal news I tell;

  How your friends are all embarking

  for the fiery gulph of Hell:

  Cards and dances ev’ry day,

  Jenny laughs at Tabernacle—

  Roger interrupted his friend with a stricken pose. “But I forget myself. Is there indeed to be a celebration? There is a rumor here in everybody’s mouth that the countess is confined or has run in debt and squandered away a great deal more than her annuity upon vagabond preachers and places for them to preach in. I cannot learn with any certainty what the case really is, but there is something or another at the bottom of this rumor which will soon be better known.”

  Westmoreland picked up his story. “We are told that her son has taken out a statute of lunacy against her, that madness is incident to the family, and that she is sister to that lord who was hanged at Tyburn not long since for willfully killing his man. And worse yet, a nephew of hers, Walter Shirley, has published a volume of Methodist sermons.”

  Twysden interrupted his friend’s flow, “No! Now, I say, Westmoreland, if you are to recount tales stricken in years, I much prefer the one of Beau Nash’s vintage. After he had attended one of her drawing rooms in suitably somber attire, verses appeared pinned to the pillars of the Pump Room stating that the countess, attended by a saintly sister, was to preach in that room the next morning and that Mr. Nash, to be known henceforth as the Rev. Richard Nash, was expected to preach in the evening in the Assembly Rooms. It was hoped that the audience would be numerous, as a collection was intended for the Master of Ceremonies, retiring from office.”

  Mary, who would ordinarily have been amused, recalled the touch of genuine emotion on Her Ladyship’s face and felt a quick, rising anger that such a lady, no matter how medievally autocratic, should be the butt of unkind jokes. “The Countess of Huntingdon is a fine and upright lady who serves God according to her own conscience, and I will thank you not to make light of her in my presence.” She snapped her fan for emphasis and turned so sharply that she almost slammed into Rowland. To her own amazement, hot, angry tears stung her eyes.

  Mary and Rowland rejoined their
party who were now ready to return home. All the way back to the Royal Crescent in Clement’s carriage Mary didn’t say a word. She couldn’t understand what was wrong with her. Bath had proved to be everything she had dreamed of and more: she had attended more balls, more concerts, and more parties in a month here than she had thought to enjoy in a lifetime; and she had a beau of the first fashion who was, if anything, over-attentive.

  What more did she want? And why was she worried about Rowland? He would take his degree, and then it was but a short step to the ordination he had his heart set on. And his cool attitude toward her seemed to make it clear that she needn’t worry any longer about his making her a troublesome offer. So why didn’t that cheer her?

  The carriage rolled to a stop before number 6 at The Royal Crescent. Mary placed her hand in the one extended by the liveried footman to descend, but she didn’t turn into their own doorway with Elizabeth. “I believe I’ll have a chat with Sarah,” she announced, and hurried off.

  Settled comfortably in Sarah’s blue and white bedroom, Mary let out a depressed sigh. “Sarah, do you ever feel empty?” Sarah looked puzzled. “That is, do you ever get tired of the routine?”

  Sarah’s infectious laughter filled the room. “Mary, what nonsense you do talk! Tired of having fun, of being admired by beaux, of buying pretty fripperies? Are you chaffing me? That’s not possible. You don’t mean to say you are weary of it, do you?”

  Mary sighed again.

  “Goodness, you are moped! You need a rest, that’s all. You aren’t tired of having fun; you’re just plain tired. Go home now for a nice lie-down, and then we’ll find a new diversion—or at the least a new bonnet to purchase.”

  Sarah had made it clear. Whatever was bothering Mary, the problem was with herself. Her feelings were unnatural. Mary decided to let the matter drop.

  But Sarah persevered. “And what of this Mr. Hill, Mary? I think too much time in his company has turned you melancholy, probably from boredom. I’ll grant he is a baronet’s son and exceedingly handsome with excellent manners, but surely you wouldn’t consider forming an attachment to a Methodist? Westmoreland assures me Roger is perfectly taken with you—and he is his uncle’s heir. Now there’s a catch worth setting your cap at.”