Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 9

  “Sirs and Madam,” he punctuated each word by tapping on the tiles with his walking stick. “I have the honour of being Squire Penshurst.”

  Apparently their polite replies to this information did not fulfill his expectations. “Of Penshurst Hall,” he added with an additional tap. “I am the local magistrate.”

  As Catherine was wondering if they were to congratulate him upon this achievement, he drew from his pocket a large piece of parchment with an official seal attached to it. “It has come to my attention that you have held irregular preaching services in this vicinity. As the duly sworn representative of His Majesty’s law, it is my duty to inform you that we shall permit no such activities in Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Sir, it is—” Ned began, but got no further as a small figure in a large, white cap took command.

  “Good morning, Squire Penshurst. I see you have met my friends Mr. and Miss Perronet and Mr. Ferrar. I shall present them at a drawing room which I am holding at Sir Thomas I’Anson’s home tomorrow night.” The round figure in the cherry coat put the warrant back in his pocket and bobbed a bow of assent to her ladyship. “I shall expect to see you there, Squire.”

  And, indeed, Squire Penshurst was among the elegant assembly that filled the drawing room in Sir I’Anson’s Palladian home atop fashionable Mount Ephraim where the Countess of Huntingdon presided as hostess the next evening. “Lady Lincoln, and Baroness Banks, may I present our speaker for the evening, the Reverend Phillip Ferrar.” The Baroness extended her hand. “How do you do? Are you connected to the Yorkshire Ferrars, Sir?”

  Phillip bowed over the white hand. “I am from London, my Lady.” Catherine who was witness to the small scene, gave a grateful thought to the orphanage matron’s careful drilling in manners that could teach a foundling to be at ease in this exalted company.

  “…the Duchess of Richmond…” The Countess continued her tour of introduction around the room, then took a seat in the center as Sir Thomas’ liveried servants handed round refreshments of wine, biscuits and sugared almonds.

  “Mr. Loggan,” she signaled a powdered gentleman in a suit of Genoa velvet with a gold-tissue brocaded waistcoat to take the seat beside her. “I viewed your paintings in London."

  “Indeed, I am honored, my Lady."

  “Charming. Quite charming. You have an excellent eye. But you must avoid an overuse of too bold colors. You will get nowhere by shocking refined tastes.”

  “I thank you for your condescension in noticing me, my Lady.”

  “It is well that you came tonight. You did not attend when Mr. Madan spoke.”

  “Indeed, my Lady, I was not in Tunbridge Wells at the time.”

  “Very careless of you, Loggan. You must take more care for your soul. Mr. Madan exhorted with warmth and energy, ‘Seek the Lord while He might be found, call upon Him while He is near.’ Whilst Mr. Madan was offering that gracious invitation of our Lord, ‘Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden,’ a man in the congregation dropped down and instantly expired.”

  Mr. Loggan shook out the lace frill at his wrist. “Egad, that must have caused a sensation.”

  “Indeed, so strong and general an influence on a congregation I seldom remember to have seen. Many were melted to tears, and seemed resolved to fly from the wrath to come.”

  “Very understandable.” The fashionable portrait painter cleared his throat.

  The company having consumed their refreshments, the Countess called for the general attention of her guests and introduced Edward and Catherine Perronet who were to present a number by the greatest hymnologist of their day, Mr. Charles Wesley. With her usual grave solemnity Catherine took her seat at the harpsichord and after a few sharp, clear chords blended her voice with her brother’s,

  Love divine, all loves excelling,

  Joy of heav’n to earth come down!…

  Jesus, Thou art all compassion;

  Pure, unbounded love Thou art.

  Visit us with Thy salvation;

  Enter ev’ry trembling heart.

  At the conclusion of the polite applause which followed the musical number, although most of the listeners had continued gossiping with their companions throughout, the Countess introduced Phillip. Catherine sent him a small smile of encouragement, knowing this audience could be far more daunting than any fireworks-throwing or bull-baiting rabble. Phillip stood at the end of the room, his silver-blond hair and white bands glowing like lights at the top of his tall, black-clad figure. With perfect self-possession he spoke gravely to the distinguished assemblage on the text, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.” And every word rang absolutely true because they were spoken by a man whose relationship with Christ was more than head knowledge—it was true fear of the Lord based on reverential awe of His love and greatness.

  As Phillip spoke, Catherine looked at him in the elegant drawing room and thought how well he was carrying everything off. The occasion must be a difficult one for him, but he was neither awkward nor exuberant. He brought to the situation the same quiet detachment that he had shown in all other occasions; and now, with the full glare of the most elegant nobility turned upon him, his solemn gracefulness was as perfect as any to the manor born. Amazing, Catherine thought, in one who had been essentially on his own since childhood. There was a natural excellence in this man that had needed no other guidance than the grace of God.

  At the end of the sermon many appeared genuinely moved by the preacher’s earnest words. It seemed truly that, “Those who came to scoff, remained to pray,” as Wesley had reported after his own experience of a similar meeting. “I am moved to consider what you say.” The artist Loggan shook Phillip’s hand. “I would hear more of this.”

  In spite of her perennially proper bearing, Catherine could tell that the Countess was delighted. When the last guest had departed she turned to her guest speaker and musicians. “A remarkable service. Many were cut to the heart. Truly God was in our midst to wound and to heal. Such happy indications of the approbation of God induce me to hope that He will deign to smile on my humble efforts. I have determined to take up the sword for the glory of His great name and the good of the people of this place. Today has given me assurance that He will ultimately crown my efforts with distinguished and lasting success.”

  The Countess strode the length of the room with her rapid steps, then sat on a straight chair, her back ramrod, her small, pointed chin forward. “Perhaps I shall build a residence here, on Mount Ephraim, that I might work more among these people. I shall give the matter careful thought, for I am forever conscious that every effort is impotent without God’s almighty aid. I cry continually to Him for wisdom and strength. What am I, that He should condescend to make me instrumental in communicating any good to others?”

  Catherine was amazed at such modest words from so autocratic a lady. It seemed there was much she did not know about this lady. And Catherine’s amazement grew as the countess continued in similar vein, “Is it not a sobering thought? I am humbled in the dust before Him. It is the Lord, the Lord Himself, that has done the work. The treasure is in an earthen vessel, but the excellency of the power is of God only, and not of man."

  Selina, Countess of Huntingdon, sat for a moment with her head bowed. Then suddenly the head jerked up and the dark, bright eyes snapped. “Miss Perronet, I do not like you riding pillion across the countryside. It is not ladylike. I understand the gentlemen must go on tomorrow, but you will remain here with me and I shall return you to London at the end of the month.”

  “Your Ladyship, I thank you for your concern and great condescension. But my father expects me. I cannot disappoint him.”

  The Countess blinked as if she could not take in that her plans were meeting disagreement. Her thin cheeks became even thinner and for a moment Catherine feared her response. Then the Countess spoke: “A fine man, your father. Very fine. Perhaps the most heavenly-minded man I know. You shall give him my regards.”

  Twelve

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p; THE NEXT MORNING Catherine awoke after a night of interrupted sleep, hoping that her bold behavior had not placed her in the Countess’ bad graces. She was to be given no indication of her standing, however, for when they slipped from the inn after a breakfast of hot chocolate and buns none of the countess’s party were about.

  A short time later, though, as she rode through the glorious May morning Catherine had no doubt in her mind of the rightness of her decision. The road led between ferns carpeting the incline on both sides of the path and across little streams meandering through spinneys of white-barked birches. Birds sang from hedgerows laced with blossoms. Masses of purple and yellow wildflowers colored the fields and wild daisies smaller than farthings grew from the shortest of stems.

  “Phillip, pray, stop a moment. I should like to collect some samples for my wildflower book.”

  Her companion pulled Jezreel to a halt and helped Catherine dismount. “You don’t have this variety in your collection?”

  “Not this particular shade of lavender.” Her long fingers spread the leaves aside and pinched the stems to gather a small nosegay. “One of the things I most look forward to in being at Shoreham again is walking in my dear woods.”

  As they rode further into Catherine’s native corner of Kent, she recognized a growing tranquility deep within herself, and felt a new contentment in being with Phillip. They could ride for miles with only the briefest of comments on the scenery, then quite suddenly one of them would begin a conversation and they would talk without pause for an equal number of miles. Either way, Catherine found a repose she had never known in the companionship of another. And one of the chief gratifications was her certainty that Phillip, who had such need of fellowship, found equal tranquility in her company.

  And whether they were discussing a deep spiritual truth, dissecting the meaning of a poem she had read recently, or merely making a commonplace observation, Catherine felt she had never been listened to so totally. Phillip’s capacity for giving his absolute attention was one of his most endearing charms. Even though she sat behind him and therefore was obliged to talk to the back of his head, there would be the little nod that told her he was listening. And for all his customary silence, his mind was extraordinarily active. Whenever he made a comment, it was incisive and to the point but always spoken with the gentleness that characterized him.

  With the hours passing so pleasantly, it seemed impossible that evening shadows should already be lengthening, when the pathway through thick woods curved sharply and Catherine knew they were nearly home. “Whenever I’m away, this is how I think of Shoreham—buried under the trees, so green and protected.” Another curve in the path, and she saw ahead of her the dearly beloved golden stone vicarage, with its high curving wall around the large garden where Charity Perronet managed to keep flowers blooming from spring to autumn.

  The many wings and gables of the house showed where it had been built onto through the centuries: first the low, grey stone, two-room structure; then a red brick wing added at the same time as the square Norman tower was put on the church; and now the lovely golden Georgian wing with the curving fanlight over the door. A symphony of familiar sounds sang Catherine’s welcome home: birds twittering in the lime trees, chickens clucking from the hen house, laughter from the inn around the corner, and the voices of children from the vicarage yard.

  Then sixteen-year-old John saw the travelers approach and gave a shout which brought family and servants running to meet them. It was Catherine’s first visit home since she left to work for the Society in London and now she wondered how she had managed to stay away so long. Her mother, wisps of graying hair escaping from her cap, engulfed them each in her comfortable embrace and warm smile. Vincent, his full-bottomed wig slightly askew, greeted them more quietly but no less warmly, his pleasure shining from his kindly eyes. And Damaris, Henry, William, Philothea, Thomas, and John all had their part in the welcome.

  “Betsy, we shall be three more at dinner. Come in, my dears. You know your rooms. Phillip, Ned will show you. I’m sure you’ll want to wash. Philly, you and Tom take cans of hot water up for them.” Charity Perronet managed to direct the entire household without ever raising her voice.

  All was orderly bustle when they gathered again in the dining room a short time later. Catherine noted Phillip’s pause at the door; he hung back as if not sure of his place. Only the slightest tightening of his straight mouth showed his unease; but as he stood aloof, Catherine could see him as he must have been at the orphanage, watching the others, but never fully part of them. Such a contrast to her own family, with a dozen noisy siblings all belonging to each other. Their eyes met and Catherine smiled to let him know she welcomed him as part of the family.

  When they had all found a place at the table, Vincent stood and offered grace, remembering the needs of the parish, mentioning each one of his children by name, and including Phillip as well. By the time he concluded with a doxology the roast joint in front of him had cooled considerably, but not the diners’ appetites.

  Vincent carved the roast while Charity served the potted venison, and hungry eaters passed the currant suet pudding and boiled parsnips with carrots.

  “Well, Damaris, are you still the mainstay of the Shoreham Methodists?” Edward asked his maiden sister, who had elected to live at home and take charge of the Society work there.

  “It continues to grow remarkably, Ned. We hold preaching in Father’s kitchen every Friday night, but we shall soon outgrow even that room.”

  “One of Damaris’ special tasks is seeing to the care of itinerant preachers when they are in the area; so if you find any lacks in the hospitality, Phillip, you must apply to her.” The gentle Vincent spoke in a teasing manner, but his pride in his daughter’s work showed in his eyes.

  “Quite right for the daughter of the man who is often called the Archbishop of Methodism, Father,” Ned said.

  “And what of your preaching tour, son? Have you met much resistance?”

  Edward recounted many of their hardships at the hands of the rabble.

  Vincent shook his head, “So much of that could be avoided if only our preachers would be allowed to use the church buildings.”

  Edward suddenly struck the table as if he had just come to a hard decision. “As we are all family here, I shall speak my mind boldly on a matter to which I have been giving considerable thought.” There was a cutting edge to his voice that made Catherine hold her breath at what his announcement might be. She had noted his sometimes brooding quiet on the trip and knew that although he was the kindest of brothers to her, he was capable of being hotheaded and sharp-tongued when he felt the situation demanded it.

  “We must give thought to separation.”

  “Edward!” Charity’s voice was the first to break the shocked silence. “And your father a vicar of the Church of England these past thirty years—twenty-one of them right here in this very church. And you and your brother Charl ordained priests—how can you say such a thing?”

  “I am sorry, Mother. But I believe we will come to it. Our brother Charl means to bring it up at the next conference. We should grant license to our own ministers to serve the sacraments.”

  “You are thinking of becoming a nonjuror, Son?” Vincent’s question bore all the more weight for being spoken in his quiet voice.

  “I don’t know, Father. I can see that I spoke in haste, especially in front of my younger brothers and sister, but the problem is serious indeed. Phillip here is one of the finest men I’ve ever heard preach; must he spend his life in a cow pasture? He was dismissed from his curacy for enthusiasm and has been without a post these two years, although he has made frequent application. Something must be done. A dissenting chapel must be better than no place at all!” In spite of himself, his voice rose to an impassioned pitch.

  “I would remind you, Son, that our Lord had nowhere to lay His sacred head. And His Sermon on the Mount was a pretty remarkable precedent of field preaching. When John Wesley was last here, h
e told me of the huge multitude he preached to in Moor fields. ‘It is field preaching which does the execution still,’ he said. ‘For usefulness, there is none comparable to it.’ What building except St. Paul’s Cathedral could contain such a large congregation as a field? One can command thrice the number in the open air that can be held under a roof. And do you not feel the convicting, convincing power of God at work among the people in the fields?”

  Edward agreed that was true.

  “Then, my Son, do not despise the means which our Lord hath put at your hand. I believe one hindrance of the work of God in York has been the neglect of field preaching; and, I am apt to think that many of the hearers at your meetings have scarcely ever heard a Methodist before, or perhaps any other preacher. What but field preaching could reach these poor sinners? Are not their souls as precious in the sight of God as those whose well-washed bodies fill the pews of churches?”

  “Your reasoned words are a help to me. I shall attempt to control my impatience, Father. But I confess to feeling a shadow of bitterness over the situation at times.”

  “Oh, no, no, my Son. Pray earnestly for the grubbing out of all root of bitterness. You must replace it with love. Love is all.”

  There was a knock at the door and Betsy hurried from the kitchen to answer it. “It’s Mr. Claygate, Sir. Come for the Bible reading. I ’ad ’im sit in the parlor.”

  “You still hold your nightly Bible readings, Father?” Catherine asked.

  “Indeed, daughter. But I have put the hour back to seven. And a good thing too, or we should have missed this stimulating conversation tonight. Never fear to speak to your family of what concerns your heart, my children.” Vincent rose. “Now, let us go to prayers.”

  Even the generous proportions of the vicarage parlor were crowded as family, servants, and parishioners gathered for nightly Bible reading and prayers. And Catherine was sure that, in spite of all that had been said in favor of field preaching, one of the prayers Phillip would offer would still be for the Lord to open the way to a parish of his own. She too prayed that petition would be granted.