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

  “Sarah! What a vulgar expression. I haven’t ‘set my cap’ at anyone and have no intention of doing so. I simply find myself a bit fatigued, as you say. At any rate, a baronet’s son becoming a Methodist may be an oddity, but he’s certainly not a bore.”

  “And Roger is?” Sarah asked in shocked tones.

  “Well, he’s very amusing, but that’s all. There seems to be no real depth to him. I don’t believe he ever really thinks about anything of importance.”

  Sarah’s expression said more loudly than words that she could not believe her ears. “Importance! He knows all the latest fashions and has an endless flow of entertaining gossip, and I heard him reading some charming poetry to you the other day. What more could you want?”

  Mary didn’t know. But as she walked slowly back to number 6, attended by Sarah’s abigail, she thought over her own words. Rowland Hill could be irritating, maddening, and worrisome, but he was never boring. She laughed quite as much in his company as she did in Roger’s; but Rowland’s companionship had the added quality of making her think, even if the thoughts weren’t always comfortable.

  Six

  Back at The Vineyards, the Countess of Huntingdon’s house in Harlequin Row, Rowland searched his soul about his intentions toward Mary. Had it not been for Berridge’s warning, he would be the happiest of men, feeling assured of his future and basking in the company of the woman he adored. Or if the Master of John’s had refused him, he could have taken comfort from Berridge in that he could not ask a woman to share the life of a lay itinerant, even though he was the son of a baronet.

  But as matters stood, to be with Mary when he felt he must resist her and believed he had no right to challenge Roger’s attentions for a place in her heart brought despair, despite his normally cheerful outlook.

  Perhaps he had misunderstood his old mentor’s advice. He felt a sudden longing to talk more with the venerable man. Rowland went in search of Her Ladyship, hoping she might have received word that Berridge was to attend the anniversary. He found her in her upstairs parlor, glowering out one of the Gothic windows that lined the front of the building.

  “I can’t think what they were about, making those Paragon Buildings seven stories high. One would think they set out to scrape the sky. It’s a wonder God didn’t strike them down as at the Tower of Babel. Formerly we had a quite perfect view from these windows.” She turned to look at Rowland. “And what may I do for you, sir?”

  “I have come to inquire if you have received word from Berridge, your ladyship. Will he attend the anniversary?”

  “I have, and he will not.” She crossed the room with quick, measured steps, picked up a letter from her desk and read:

  As for myself, I am now determined not to quit my charge. Never do I leave my bees though for a short space only, but at my return I find them either casting a colony or fighting and robbing each other; not gathering honey from every flower in God’s garden, but filling the air with their buzzing, and darting out the venom of their little hearts in their fiery stings. Nay, so inflamed they often are, and a mighty little thing disturbs them, that three months’ tinkering afterwards with a warming pan will scarce hive them at last and make them settle to work again.

  Rowland, whose smile had grown throughout the reading, chuckled at the closing remark.

  “I suppose you find this amusing, do you? You and Berridge share the same besetting sin. Humor, sir, is most inappropriate and unbecoming in a man of God. You must work to expunge it from your nature.”

  Rowland considered inquiring why she thought God had given him a sense of humor if He had no use for it, but not feeling equal to a lecture on original sin at the moment, he merely bowed.

  The anniversary service celebrating the seventh year of the opening of the Countess of Huntingdon’s Bath chapel was to be held at six o’ clock in the evening on the Sunday following Easter. Mrs. Child had declined the invitation, but the entire Tudway party was to attend.

  Mary chose a small but lavishly trimmed hat and set it at a sharp angle on her elaborately dressed hair, highly pleased with the new style Bath’s most fashionable hairdresser had created for her. She picked up a wide, black silk scarf edged with frills and allowed Elizabeth’s dresser to drape it carefully around her shoulders just before Mrs. Tudway knocked at her door. “Are you ready, my dear?”

  “Coming, Mother.” Mary turned toward the door. “Oh, I almost forgot my ticket.” She moved the numerous pots and jars around on her dressing table until she uncovered the small strip of cardboard. “Other foundation can no man lay, than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ. 1 Corinthians 3:11.” She read the text out loud.

  “Yes, my dear, but no matter what it says, I do believe Her Ladyship has laid quite a few foundation stones. I understand she has built something like fifteen chapels and staffed them with chaplains at her own expense—at Brighton, Tunbridge Wells, over in Wales and Derbyshire. It makes one quite tired to think of such energy.” Mrs. Tudway led the way to their carriage.

  Mary was mildly surprised to meet Roger just outside the door to the chapel, but she was completely amazed that Bishop Twysden should be there too. She presented her family to the important guest and then remained with Roger as the others went in. “How gracious of you to attend the countess’s celebration, Bishop Twysden,” Mary said. “I’m sure Her Ladyship will be sensible of the honor you do her.”

  The bishop laughed and held out his ringed hand for Mary to curtsey over, his lawn sleeves billowing over his wrist. “I doubt very much that she will feel honored; more likely invigorated by the opportunity to convert me.”

  “Convert you?” Mary was astounded.

  “Oh, yes. Her Ladyship is convinced of the sinfulness of all men, no matter of what station.”

  “But that’s impossible—a bishop. Surely you were baptized—”

  “In my infancy at Westminster Abbey, with a bishop presiding, and later I was confirmed. But what is good enough for the church isn’t necessarily good enough for the countess.”

  Quite to Mary’s surprise, rather than leading the way through the main door, the bishop walked farther toward the back of the building to a small door. “The countess was most thoughtful in her accommodations, however. Realizing that higher members of the church might feel—ah—uncomfortable among her more enthusiastic worshipers, she has provided us with a private chamber. Would you care to see?”

  The bishop opened the door on a small room to the right of the pulpit, curtained from the general view. The cubicle contained a comfortable padded chair, a small fireplace, and a special niche where the bishop could set his claret. Here he could see the service only imperfectly through a tiny window, but he could hear clearly, without the disgrace of being seen in such a place.

  “Perfectly cozy, is it not? I understand even the Archbishop of Dublin has occupied this eccentric bishop’s seat.” Bishop Twysden arranged his robes carefully in the chair, poured out a glass of claret, and set it at hand in the niche. “Yes, I believe this will do quite well to view what Horace Walpole termed ‘Mr. Wesley’s opera.’” He took a long sip of claret and then waved his hand. “Run along now, children. This should prove most amusing.”

  Mary and Roger found seats near her family; but unlike the comforts provided for the bishop, they sat upon forms—long, backless benches. Even the galleries behind and on both sides of them were full. It was clear that Lady Huntingdon’s celebration was to be one of the events of the season.

  “Most appropriate that this should have been built in Harlequin Row,” Roger observed. “We shall no doubt be treated to comic entertainment. What do you suppose those eagles signify?” He waved a scented, lace-edged handkerchief in the direction of three large, white, spread-winged eagles that stood behind the ornamental iron altar rail.

  “They are very handsome, are they not?” Mary replied. “Perhaps they are from the Huntingdon family crest. At any rate, they make superb reading desks.”

  The preacher’s eagle was in the
center of a platform, elevated three steps higher than the others with a heavy, dark oak pulpit behind it. Behind the other eagles were scarlet damask chairs. But Mary was most taken with the elaborate candelabra.

  On each side of the pulpit stood magnificent candlesticks of eight branches with five candles in each branch, and so on around the room, until there must have been upwards of a hundred candles lighting the chapel.

  Roger, who had also been looking around, tugged at the lace frill on his sleeve. “Faith, I am glad to see that luxury is creeping upon them before persecution.”

  Mary was spared making an answer to this as the organ pealed an anthem from the gallery behind, signaling the start of the service. The countess and her entourage of fine ladies with a few male escorts took their places in chairs down front, and the officiating clergymen walked to the scarlet seats behind the eagles. Mary caught her breath when she saw that Rowland was in the reader’s seat on her left. She had no idea that among the many notable visitors, he would be chosen for so important a post.

  She had a vague feeling she should recognize the fine-featured man with the luminous brown eyes and finely curled white hair in the preacher’s seat.

  Not until he stood to lead the congregation in singing “Jesus, Lover of My Soul,” however, did Mary recognize him as the composer of the hymn, Charles Wesley. She leaned forward to get a better view. So here was the famed singer, preacher, and leader, with his brother John, of the Methodist Society. But she was even more intrigued when a woman, introduced as his wife, joined him, and together they sang “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.” It was obvious as they sang about the love of God that they had experienced this love personally. But it also seemed to Mary that when the song spoke of “Joy of heav’n to earth come down,” their expressions took on a double meaning, as if they had also experienced an earthly love with each other for which they praised their God.

  Sally Wesley had a fine figure in a modestly cut gown of a heavy blue fabric. The white lawn fichu filling in the square-cut neckline highlighted her bright eyes and sweet smile, but Mary was shocked at the heavily pockmarked skin which quite spoiled her looks. She must have been beautiful before she was stricken with the smallpox, Mary thought. What a pity!

  Whatever the illness had done to the woman’s appearance, however, it could not mar the beauty of her voice. “Finish then Thy new creation, / Pure and spotless let us be; / Let us see Thy great salvation / Perfectly restored in Thee: / Changed from glory into glory,/Till in heav’n we take our place,/Till we cast our crowns before Thee,/Lost in wonder, love and praise!”

  And at the end of the song, Sally Wesley’s smile was first for her husband and then for the congregation.

  Rowland stood to read the lesson for the day from 1 John 5: “‘Whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world: and this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith.’” Mary, who was perfectly acquainted with his conversational voice, had never heard Rowland address an audience. The extraordinary clarity and sweetness of his words as he read the passage held her spellbound. And she was amazed at the elegance of his appearance as he stood behind the large white eagle in a plain black suit. Not yet ordained, he was not wearing clerical garments as the other clergymen on the platform. She would never have guessed that a man could look so handsome in drab black with no lace, embroidery, or metallic trim.

  “‘And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life; and this life is in his Son. He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.’”

  Mary felt bereft when he quit reading—she could have listened to him for hours. But the lesson was followed by a choir of boys and girls who sang hymns to Scottish ballad tunes. When they began their third melody, Roger leaned close to her and commented too loudly, “They have charming voices, but they sing so long one would think they were already in eternity and knew how much time they had before them.”

  Mary gave him a disapproving look that silenced his cynical humor. At last the children finished their songs. The clergyman sitting behind the eagle on the right, whose outstanding features were his gentle smile and long, lank hair, rose and led the congregation in prayer. He began by reading from the prayer book, “Almighty Father, who hast given thine only Son to die for our sins and to rise again for our justification…” But then the preacher continued on in his own words at the end of the printed prayer, his soft Swiss dialect giving the words a special emphasis. Mary had never heard anyone do that and was shocked into lifting her head and looking around her. She found that many of the fashionably dressed worshipers had a similar reaction, and an undertone of astonished whispers accompanied the prayer.

  The whispers ceased, however, when Charles Wesley mounted the steps to the center eagle and read his text. “‘There was a man of the Pharisees, named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews. The same came to Jesus by night.’” As the reading continued, Mary smiled, wondering what the bishop, tucked away in his Nicodemus chamber, thought of the text. “‘Verily, verily I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’”

  The preacher paused, surveyed his audience, and then spoke with a level voice that reached to the farthest corners of the galleries. “The greatest sham of our age is the same as in Nicodemus’s age—the profession of religion without knowing its power. The hypocrisy which hides the hideous deformity of a Christless character by the cloak of a plausible profession is one of the most odious of which a man is capable.”

  Wesley smiled at Lady Huntingdon sitting before him. “We are gathered here today to celebrate a great occasion in the work of the Kingdom—the opening of this chapel in one of the most wicked cities of our nation. Matters of salvation are of infinite importance. The glory of bringing souls to Christ is the greatest honor God can confer upon us. The salvation of one soul is of more worth than a thousand worlds. My dearest brothers and sisters, may God fill us with like ardent desires to those which warmed the apostle’s heart, when he was constrained to declare to his Galatian hearers that he travailed in birth till Christ was formed in them.

  “And in this mighty congregation, if there are those here—and I am persuaded there are—who do not know this divine power and assurance in their own life, let me proclaim to you that this divine happiness and peace is unto all men and women.”

  The preacher’s words caught at Mary’s heart. Could the dissatisfaction she had been feeling indicate a spiritual need? She cast back in her mind to her discontent in Wells, which she had attributed to the need for more social excitement. Had she looked for her solution in entirely the wrong place?

  But how could her need be spiritual? She was baptized. As she groped for assurance, she turned the pages of her prayer book to the “Baptism of Infants.” “Forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin; and that our Saviour Christ saith, ‘None can enter into the kingdom of God, except he be regenerate and born anew of water and of the Holy Ghost’… ye have brought this child here to be baptized, ye have prayed that our Lord Jesus Christ would vouchsafe to receive him, to release him of his sins, to sanctify him with the Holy Ghost, to give him the kingdom of heaven, and everlasting life…. Our Lord Jesus Christ has promised in His gospel to grant all these things that ye have prayed for…. This infant must promise by you that are his sureties until he come of age to take it upon himself that he will renounce the devil and all his works and constantly believe God’s holy word and obediently keep His commandments.”

  Well, she supposed she had taken the promise upon herself. She attended divine service regularly and fully believed all the creeds. Certainly she shared none of Rowland’s enthusiasm which could lead one into socially unacceptable extremes, but she was not a heathen. She did believe. She could see no solution for her problem in seeking spiritual fervor, but she determined to talk to Rowland about the matter.

  The service concluded with another extempore prayer by the kind-looking minister with the wispy hair, who was identified in her program
as John Fletcher. Then Mary’s thoughts were lost in a bustle of gathering her parasol, prayer book, and scarf. “I must confess the lessons were read very well and the hymns sung very sweetly,” Roger announced. “Had there been no preaching—which was in the highest attitude of rhapsody and rant, nor extempore prayer—which must always be an abomination, the whole would have been much to my satisfaction. I found the old praying parson to be a perfect specimen—he has true Methodistical hair.”

  Elizabeth made her way to Mary through the press. “We are to attend a private reception in the countess’s rooms. Will you come with us?”

  Mary glanced uncertainly at Roger. “Egad! Such stamina. I beg I may be excused. I feel quite surfeited with holiness.” And then in a voice which only Mary could hear, “And I have no doubt my poor uncle will be entirely overcome. If the first improvised prayer didn’t knock him up completely, I’m persuaded the second one may have finished the poor fellow off. He will be in want of my support to see him home to something stronger than claret.” Making a sweeping bow, Roger left.

  Mary was happy to join her family in the elegant drawing room next to the chapel. Having the countess’s living quarters attached to the chapel meant that it was constituted by law a private chapel and that Her Ladyship had complete authority over its services and ministers.

  Mary would have liked to congratulate Rowland upon his fine reading, but he was surrounded by a group of important-looking clergymen and ladies of the countess’s private party. So she went instead to the long table bearing an elegant buffet. She had taken a generous portion of orange souffle and was helping herself to the celerata cream when Lady Selina joined her. “Don’t miss the ratafia biscuits; they’re my favorite.” She pointed to a footed plate just beyond the pastry basket. “Did you enjoy the service? I thought the children’s choir charming.”