Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 8

  Catherine thought it one of the prettiest scenes she’d ever seen, and she felt only the slightest tinge of envy when she looked down at her own soiled clothes. She had acquired a strong fashion sense from her French grandmother, and although life in a vicarage had taught Catherine the vanity of worldliness, she didn’t believe it honored God to look like a dowd. And after almost two weeks in her travel-worn gown, dowd was the only word to express how she felt in proximity to these exquisite creatures of fashion. After one elegant lady in a yellow ribbed silk gown trimmed with metal lace and artificial flowers eyed her with raised brows, Catherine urged her companions to ride on. Ned and Phillip, who always looked proper in their black cleric’s coats with white Geneva bands at the neck, and their neatly tied hair, could have little notion of how she felt.

  Suppressing a sigh, Catherine thanked her brother for his indulgence. Ned merely nodded, then prodded Biggin to continue. At the foot of the hill, the riders were met not by a promenade of the fashionable, but by a cluster of small boys and dogs, chasing wildly after a runaway hoop. At first the scene amused Catherine, reminding her of similar scenes at Shoreham vicarage. But suddenly the speeding hoop veered into the roadway in front of them and shouting boys and yapping dogs turned almost directly at Jezreel.

  The startled horse skittered sharply sideways and reared with a jerk. Catherine clutched for Phillip’s back, but already she had slipped beyond its grasp; and with a cry, she fell to the ground.

  Phillip and Ned were beside her in a moment. Ned turned with a sharp command to send the boys on their way, and Phillip knelt beside her. “Catherine, I am so sorry. Are you hurt? I couldn’t hold her steady. Catherine…”

  Catherine looked at his distressed countenance and a small trill of laughter broke from her. “It is a good thing you didn’t hold her. By sidestepping, Jezreel managed to unload me in the only patch of long grass anywhere near this stony road. Very thoughtful of her!” And she drew one of his rare smiles which she had learned to cherish for their scarcity.

  “Are you truly all right, Cath?” Ned asked.

  “Truly. I was not in the least terrified. Merely the quite natural fear of falling.” She paused to consider. “I realize now—I have not been afraid for days.” With a wide smile she clasped her hands in gladness. “I am entirely recovered.” And then she flung her arms out to express a relief beyond words.

  Catherine had been a person of few fears. She knew a brief fear of the dark as a child, and she could still remember her father coming in to her room to assure her of his presence. Not that it was her room alone, of course—one was never alone in a family of twelve—but after the others were asleep the dark could feel lonely. And if Father were gone, Ned would come with a simple good-night, to let her know he was there and cared. Therefore, the fear had not lasted long.

  And then there had been her one fearful experience in the woods, when at the age of twelve she had wandered too far in search of a bluejay and gotten lost. It was long after dark when she heard Ned calling, but she could still remember the feel of the fear falling away as if the woods were lighted.

  Her fear of horses, however, had found no such happy ending, until today. She smiled at Phillip, thinking how a fine horse was the one thing that invariably made his cool eyes glow dark and warm. And now she was free of the fear that prevented her from sharing this interest with her new friend. Just as with the help of others, the small Catherine had conquered her fear of the dark and of being lost in the woods, so she had conquered her fear of horses—with the help of Phillip and of God. The God, who at least in this instance, did indeed seem to be still guiding her way.

  Phillip remounted and Ned gave her a leg up to her pillion seat. Then, in spite of the increased dowdiness the dark grass stains added to her dress, Catherine Perronet rode in triumph through Tunbridge Wells.

  The accommodations offered by Tunbridge Wells were unlike any other they had experienced on the journey, or were likely to on any itinerant preaching tour. The town had changed remarkably since the time of Charles I when his queen, Henrietta Maria, arrived with her court to take the spa waters and had to camp in tents on the common because so few houses or public inns had yet been built.

  “Ned, are you quite sure we can afford this?” Catherine was looking at the brocade and gilt Louis XV furniture in the parlor, but her mind was on Phillip’s slim purse.

  “Perhaps—” Ned began, but was interrupted by a flurry of activity as they were caught between a party arriving at the door and the landlord with the entire staff of the inn rushing to greet the new arrivals who traveled in an elegant, coroneted coach. At the center of the maelstrom was a tiny, sharp-featured woman, her greying brown hair tucked firmly inside a cap of the finest white linen, the severe plainness of her Spitalfields silk gown in no way hiding the excellent quality of the fabric or workmanship.

  “Welcome, my Lady. Countess, my humble establishment is yours, and I your most devoted servant.” The innkeeper bowed so deeply it seemed for a moment he would overbalance and fall on his nose.

  The lady acknowledge his sycophantry with a nearly imperceptible nod and began giving orders for the dispatching of her entourage and possessions, all of which were carried out with the greatest alacrity. When the room had been fairly cleared of servants, trunks, and portmanteaux, the noble lady sighted the three travelers who watched from a corner of the room. “Edward Perronet. You may present yourself.”

  Looking only slightly disconcerted, Edward stepped forward and made his bow. “Lady Huntingdon, may I beg leave to present my sister and our companion?”

  The lady inclined her head. “You may.”

  “Lady Huntingdon, my sister, Miss Catherine Perronet, and our friend, the Reverend Phillip Ferrar.”

  “Ah. I recall now, Mr. Ferrar. John Wesley told me you were preaching in this area. I shall hear more of your work. You will join me for dinner.” Her gaze included the three of them; then she turned to the hovering innkeeper. “You will provide accommodations for my friends on my account also.” She turned back to Ned. “I dine at seven o’clock.” Her exit from the room was as straightforward as a military march, the small train on her dress following in obedient folds.

  At a snap of the landlord’s fingers, his second assistant approached the three still standing in the center of the floor. “May I show you to your rooms?”

  In her room, a dismayed Catherine surveyed her attire. Her only comfort was the fact that she had washed and pressed her lawn fichu, so she would have a fresh covering around the neckline of her bodice. But what the countess would say to her soiled skirt, Catherine quailed to consider. She heated her curling iron over a candle and framed her face with small round curls, then drew the remainder of her hair into a bun on the top of her head, to be covered by her ruffled lawn cap. It was the best she could do.

  Her only comfort was the fact that when she entered the Countess’ private parlor with Ned and Phillip at the commanded hour, there were sufficient shadows in the candlelit room to conceal the most disreputable of her travel stains. She took a deep breath, straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, hoping that a dignified carriage might help overshadow any faults in her attire.

  Catherine held her breath as the countess turned toward her, wondering whether she should curtsey. The great lady merely gave her the briefest of glances, however. “You are punctual. Good.”

  The countess indicated the beautifully appointed table, silver and crystal on a white damask cloth gleaming in the firelight. “Miss Perronet, you may sit by my traveling companion, the Lady Fanny Shirley, my aunt.”

  Edward hurried to hold Catherine’s chair for her and she sat by the small creature in a mouse-grey gown at the bottom of the table. Edward and Phillip were commanded to seats on either side of the Countess. “You may set the first course,” she directed her servants.

  The dishes appeared as if by magic. The roasted pork with turnips suited milady’s taste, but the butter pond pudding would not do. “Franklin, my
constitution cannot abide this. Remove it at once.” A servant hurried forward. “There is enough butter in that to have drowned the pig, had it been alive. I have come to the Wells to have my health restored, not further endangered by rich puddings.”

  The offending dish was hastily removed and replaced by jugged pigeons with pease and onions which were much more suited to the Countess’ delicate physique. “I more frequently take the waters at Bath,” Lady Huntingdon explained to her guests, “but my condition did not respond well to my last visit there, so my physician recommended the chalybeate spring here. You may accompany me in the morning, Miss Perronet. You look entirely too peaked. You want fortifying. You know, after Dudley Lord North discovered these springs early last century, he was miraculously cured from a lingering consumptive disorder.”

  Catherine was dumbstruck. Did the countess suspect her of lingering consumption? Catherine was spared a reply as the other diners made appropriate responses to their hostess’ monologue. She turned to Phillip, sitting on her left, and scrutinized him. “Young man, you are entirely too thin. You must eat more.” She carved a thick slice of pork and placed it on his plate. “Preaching the Word of God requires stamina. You must fortify yourself physically as well as spiritually for the slings and arrows of the enemy. Have your services met with success?”

  Phillip responded that there had been many victories in spite of the resistance of the rabble. He appeared about to elaborate when the Countess went on. “This is a benighted area. The season is just beginning, but already you shall see the luminaries of society on the promenade. Dr. Johnson, David Garrick, Mr. Pitt—they come here regularly now that that self-appointed potentate from Bath has undertaken to establish his routines of vice here. I speak, of course, of Beau Nash. Coffee houses, balls, concerts, gambling rooms—that is what Tunbridge Wells offers to kill the souls of those who would drink her waters for the health of their bodies.”

  The Countess placed a pigeon and another turnip on Phillip’s plate. “I thank God that you have come to do battle with the evil one in his very stronghold. But it will not be easy. Not that we are ever to expect the way of our Lord to be easy, of course. But the only established church in the district is the Chapel-of-ease, dedicated to King Charles the Martyr, and it is little attended and is closed altogether between the seasons.

  “When I was here with my chaplain, Mr. Madan, he was not allowed to preach in the Chapel-of-ease because of his evangelical beliefs, even though, of course, he is a fully ordained and most godly man. Mount Sion, the Presbyterian place of worship, was placed at his disposal; but such a man is not a dissenter and must not be forced from his own church.

  “Mr. Wesley also attended me here once. The Presbyterian place was freely lent for his use, but it was insufficient to contain the numbers who wished to hear. He addressed the assembled multitudes in the open air. This was a new and extraordinary occurrence at Tunbridge Wells. It created no small stir.” The gleam in the countess’ eyes expressed the approval she held for such doings.

  “I have been forced to travel without a chaplain this time, Mr. Madan having fallen ill with an ague and Mr. Whitefield not yet recovered from his latest journey to America. But God, in His never-failing graciousness, has provided.” She turned full-face to Phillip. “You shall preach for me, Sir.”

  Phillip reddened, but inclined his head in obedient compliance.

  “Tomorrow after we take the waters I shall inspect the subscription list at the assembly rooms to learn who is in town and draw my list. Fanny,” and she turned to her aunt, “you shall send invitations to a drawing room.”

  “Yes, indeed, Selina,” Lady Shirley replied in her soft voice.

  “Sir Thomas I’Anson shall open his home for me again as he did when last Mr. Madan preached here.”

  “Yes, indeed, Selina.” Catherine was sure this was a phrase Fanny Shirley found of much use.

  The servants entered to remove the dishes. “Nothing sweet,” the Countess directed. “You may set a cheddar cheese and some nuts, and perhaps dried apricots if they are nice.”

  “Yes, Milady, very nice indeed.” Franklin bowed as he took a step backward toward the door to the pantry.

  Lady Huntingdon looked at Phillip. “And a dish of sweet whey for this young man. And the other young people,” she added as an after-thought. “But no nutmeg. My physician warns me it is most harmful to the constitution.”

  Catherine raised her napkin to her mouth to cover a smile.

  Later, when they had obediently consumed the sweetened milk junket laced with sugar and cream and flavored with rosewater—but no nutmeg—the party sat at ease around the room sipping cups of finest Hyson tea—taken with milk to lessen the deleterious effects of its stimulating properties. Catherine at last found an opportunity to confide to Lady Fanny Shirley the worry foremost in her mind. “My portmanteau was lost in a flood. I fear I have nothing appropriate even for drinking the waters in polite company, let alone attending a drawing room in the home of Sir Thomas I’Anson.”

  “The waters are drunk in dishabille. Have you no morning robe?” Lady Shirley asked in her soft voice.

  Catherine would have liked to respond with a laugh, but the Countess had given no indication of favoring such levity in her parlor. She was now engaging Ned and Phillip in deep theological conversation on her strictly-held Calvinist tenets. “Alas, no closer than Greenwich,” Catherine explained to Lady Shirley. “One’s needs are quite simple on a preaching circuit.”

  “Yes, I can guess they might be. You are to be commended for your courage in making such a journey. Although I am aware many women do so, I know I should never attempt it. Why, I’ve heard tell that Mrs. Murray even attended Mr. Wesley into Ireland.” She emphasized her words with a small shudder. “But as to your wardrobe, I fancy we can contrive something. I am reckoned to be rather clever with a needle. It is a useful skill for a poor relation.” Her self-deprecating smile endeared her to Catherine.

  After a moment’s consideration Fanny Shirley continued. “You are much taller than I, but perhaps we could let down a petticoat and gather up the overskirt into puffs in the shepherdess style. It was quite the rage when last we were in London, and would look very charming on you—if Selina approves,” she added hastily.

  Eleven

  SELINA APPROVED, SO THE next day Catherine appeared on the Pantiles in a charming sprigged muslin dress worn shepherdess style over a fashionably short petticoat. Lady Fanny had even been able to produce new blue ribbons for Catherine’s wide straw hat. Fanny had at first suggested pink, but Catherine did not feel that was the most flattering color for her dark complexion, and so was delighted with the light blue.

  The colonnaded row of shops, charmingly shaded by lime trees all along one side of the promenade which Catherine and her escorts entered, was the heart of Tunbridge Wells. Here a large crowd of the fashionable gathered every morning around the chalybeate spring at the entrance to the square. And, indeed, they were in dishabille, as Lady Fanny had predicted. The men wore long damask dressing gowns which swept the paving tiles, or the shorter banyon, cut similarly to a dress coat with flared skirts, but with the hem ending well below the knees. Whichever style coat they chose, however, all the men were wigless, covering their shaved heads either with caps of fabric matching their dressing gowns, or with the more fashionable turbans. For the most part the ladies wore simple muslin saques, most of them with long, elegantly embroidered white muslin aprons, although Catherine did not feel out of place in her made-over creation.

  A small group of musicians entertained the visitors as they waited for the dipper to ladle their glass of water from her sunken stall beneath the colonnade. The dipper’s appointment, by legal act, was the gift of the Lord of Rusthall Manor, who owned the area; the small sum Edward paid her for their glasses was not for the water, which was free, but for her service.

  Catherine took the glass from her brother and sipped the slightly yellowish liquid. “Fa, it tastes like rust.”

/>   “Iron water,” Ned agreed. “From the forge of St. Dunstan.”

  Catherine returned her glass to the dipper. “What are you talking about, Ned?” She placed her hand lightly on her brother’s arm and smiled at Phillip on the other side of her as they strolled up the shaded promenade.

  “It’s the source of the amazing properties of the water,” Ned continued his story. “In the tenth century, St. Dunstan had a forge nearby. He was visited there one day by a most seductive young lady whom the saint immediately recognized as the devil. The holy man seized a pair of tongs from the fire and gripped the devil by the nose. Whereupon the devil plunged his face into the cooling waters of the spring, thereby imparting to them forever their distinctive metallic tang.”

  Catherine smiled at her brother’s story, then looked up at Phillip, catching one of his brief smiles—which somehow always made her want to cry.

  They went up the steps onto the Upper Walk and followed along the houses and shops fronted by rows of Italianate columns, past a general store, the Musick Gallery, the Assembly Rooms where later in the day Beau Nash would preside over the gaming tables, coffee houses filled with patrons bearing the latest gossip, and booksellers, where already a few who had taken their water earlier were gathering to pen letters or try their hand at writing a piece of “water poetry” so popular in the town.

  At the end of the walk they turned and left the colonnade for the more open promenade under the lime trees, walking on the flat paving tiles which Queen Anne had paid for when she became impatient with local workmen and which gave the area its name.

  They had almost returned the length of the Pantiles to the dipper’s stall when a short rotund man in a full-bottomed wig and embroidered red damask coat puffed up the avenue toward them.