A Beggar's Kingdom

by Paullina Simons

  “Oh, I’ve heard of a Jon Snow,” Julian says. “Mine might be a different man. What does yours do?”

  “He invented something called chloroform to give to our Queen Victoria to ease her burden when she was being delivered of her infant,” Mirabelle says.

  “He has also been consumed with discovering what causes cholera,” Filippa says. “Our soldiers are having a terrible time with the sickness.”

  “Cholera? Soldiers?” Julian says, falling back against the seat. “You’re not helping John Snow with that, are you, Miss Taylor?”

  “Of course she is!” Filippa says, with a gossipy scrunch of her nose.

  “Oh, look, we’ve arrived,” Mirabelle cuts in, calling out to the carriage driver, “Barney, stop here, please, where there are no puddles. Are you ready, Ju—um, Mr. Cruz?”

  “I’d stay away from cholera research,” Julian says to her, staring at the flowing waters of the Thames. “Cholera is quite infectious.”

  29

  The Prince of Preachers

  JULIAN HEARS THE WOMEN WHISPERING IN FRONT OF HIM AS they walk to the vestry.

  “Pippa, stop yammering,” Mirabelle says, “assailing that poor man with every silly thing that pops into your brain.”

  “It’s called enchanting him with conversation, not that you’d know anything about it.”

  “Don’t listen to me, listen to your mother, Pips. Men do not like chattering chicks. It makes them anxious.”

  “Is that why you’ve been like a tomb? Do you suppose he finds your sullenness attractive?”

  “I don’t care about that, Pippa, you know I don’t. I’m trying to help you out. As a friend. Fine, do as you please. But don’t talk about me. Talk about the weather and the ball, or whatever else you think might interest him. But not me. Unless you keep talking about me because you think I interest him. Then by all means, keep going.” Boom. Filippa is made mute. Mirabelle spins around, casting Julian a small apologetic smile. “This way, Mr. Cruz. And please, when you meet him, don’t be intimidated by our reverend. He’ll seem brash at the outset, but really he’s the most gentle, most devout soul.”

  In Spurgeon’s chaotic, dark wood, book-lined study, the women settle in as they wait for him.

  “I don’t know if Charles will be to your taste, Mr. Cruz, you being from Wales,” Prunella says, as if she has any idea what Julian’s taste might be. “Some have criticized our pastor for his evangelical eloquence.” She takes off her bonnet. “Some chide him for his manner of preaching. He likes to call it plain talk for working men and women. But some—no one in this room, of course, but others—denounce him as nothing more than a fire eater at Astley’s Circus.”

  “But not women, Mrs. Pye,” Mirabelle says. “Women find him quite attractive.”

  Prunella makes a face of distaste just like the one Mortimer used to make about gin laced with turpentine.

  Mirabelle shows Julian a large basket overflowing with hand-sewn slippers. “The women know he is unmarried, and they keep sending him their slippers as a token of their interest.” She smiles. “He’s also deluged with requests for locks of his hair.” Mirabelle permits herself half a blink in the direction of Julian’s own thick wavy mane.

  “It’s shocking Charles has any hair left,” Prunella says with a judgmental huff. “He keeps accommodating the brazen creatures. One of these days, he’ll accommodate one of them right into marriage!”

  While they have a few minutes, Mirabelle fills Julian in on a few details about the preacher. Spurgeon has an impressive résumé. He arrived in London a year earlier, in 1853, when he was just nineteen. He walked into the New Park Street Chapel, took the pulpit without invitation, and began speaking. His first sermons, underpinned by the Puritan teachings from his childhood, were attended by only a few hundred people, but now, merely a year later, two thousand people crush into the nave to hear him. The ministry is in the process of renting out the nearby Surrey Music Hall which holds 10,000 souls. They’re worried it still won’t be enough space.

  “Mirabelle!” a loud, happy voice roars from behind them.

  Charles Spurgeon is quite a presence. He wears a clerical collar, monochrome gray trousers, and a waistcoat. He sports tremendous sideburns that make him look older than twenty. Perhaps that’s the intention. He is not tall but appears tall. He has a strong broad face and big hands. The most commanding thing about him, however, even in the private setting of his outstanding study, is his voice. As Mirabelle’s sotto voce cannot be extinguished, traveling with her from body to body, Charles Spurgeon’s booming bass is a character unto itself.

  Julian knows why—because the voice carries in from the soul.

  Enthusiastically Spurgeon pumps Julian’s hand, bids him to sit (Julian nearly falls down) in an armchair next to Mirabelle and offers him a glass of warm ale, which Julian drinks as if he hasn’t had a drink in days. Upon seeing this, Spurgeon commands his wan, bloodless assistant named Nora to wobble forward with a carafe of ale and leave it by Julian’s side with a glass. Two pints of ale drunk quickly on an empty stomach test Julian’s tolerance. His head starts to swim. He decides to speak minimally for fear of sounding like an idiot. He thinks he hears Spurgeon say that “sloth and silence are fool’s virtues.” Julian hopes the man is not referring to him.

  Spurgeon listens as Mirabelle explains that George Airy himself had asked her to make this introduction. “George himself!” Spurgeon exclaims, stroking his chin, regarding both Mirabelle and Julian. “Well, that is most curious, perhaps even a little mysterious. Why do you think George did that, Mirabelle?”

  “My uncle is an enigma, Charles.”

  “Indeed, he is. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Cruz—may I call you Julian?—I am extremely well disposed toward the great George Airy, both of us kindred spirits arising from Colchester, but he is not exactly what I would call forthcoming with the personal warmth, especially toward strangers.” Boisterously Spurgeon laughs.

  “Mr. Cruz is a professor in Bangor!” Filippa chimes in. She is in a chair by the fireplace. Prunella stands starchily behind her daughter.

  “Delightful!” Spurgeon says. “A professor of what?”

  “Literature,” Julian says. He tells the reverend he’s in London to do some research on Charles Dickens.

  “Professor of literature, you say? How wonderful! Mirabelle, did you hear that?”

  “Of course, Charles. I’m sitting right next to Mr. Cruz. I cannot help but hear.”

  “Bangor, Wales? It’s one of the smallest cathedral towns in all of Britain, you know.” (That’ll teach Julian to think he can outsmart a scientist and a reverend.) “Is the seminarian college part of Bangor Cathedral? Oh, most delightful! Are you a nonconformist, then?”

  How does Julian answer, yes, no? He’s read about the battles between the religious orders, but clearly not carefully enough.

  “It’s no business of mine,” Spurgeon goes on. “But the majority in Wales are dissenters from the Anglican Church…”

  “Then I’m one.”

  “…But it does prevent them from holding university degrees since the university exists primarily to churn out Anglican ministers.”

  “I misspoke—I’m not one,” Julian says. Every damn word is a landmine.

  “Oh, shame,” says Spurgeon. “Because I am one.” He laughs. “Yes, absolutely! In my heart, I believe we’re all protestants in some form. We’re always questioning one thing or another. I myself was taken into the Baptist Union and now preach the Calvinist doctrine of grace. Of course you are familiar with it?”

  Julian mumbles incoherently. He is a little bit familiar with it. Last thing he needs is to start debating theology with a Baptist minister. He doesn’t want to be exposed as a Catholic in front of Mirabelle.

  “I overwhelm you, Mr. Cruz, I see that. Here comes the orator with his flood of words and his drop of reason is what you’re thinking, aren’t you?” Spurgeon slaps Julian good-naturedly on the shoulder but won’t go and sit down. “I apol
ogize for my forward demeanor, but I’m afraid it’s the only one I’ve got. Some call me the fire eater of Astley’s Circus to try to insult me. Little do they know that there’s nothing I find more complimentary!”

  “Mr. Cruz is coming to my ball at the end of the summer!” Filippa interjects.

  “Well, I don’t know about that…” Julian begins to say.

  There’s a twinkle in Spurgeon’s eye as he leans back against his desk, arms folded. “Pippa, have you informed the good gentleman that it’s a fundraising ball, so he’s not caught off guard?”

  “I was about to tell him, pastor. It’s a fundraising ball for—”

  “Charles,” Mirabelle interrupts, “during his pilgrimage to us, Mr. Cruz has not only mislaid his spectacles and his cloak, but he has also misplaced his purse. Is there any way you could advance him—”

  Julian has been trying to figure out a way to ask Charles for a small loan without sounding as if he is homeless and jobless and penniless, in other words without sounding exactly like what he is. And the rescue once again comes from Mirabelle, of all people.

  Spurgeon walks behind his desk and pulls out a wooden box. “What is the sum you require?”

  Julian is stumped. How much does it cost in 1854 to buy masonry supplies, to rent a room, to buy a suit? How much does it cost to become the man the gracious, beautiful young woman next to him might love?

  Spurgeon counts what’s in the box. “I have two pounds, eight shillings here,” he says, extending his hand full of coin.

  Is that the price? Julian mutters a thank you, casting a sideways glance at Mirabelle, as if to say with his gaze what he can’t with his words, which is, forgive me for my calumnious indigence, my love. I’m not always like this, so unworthy of you.

  But Mirabelle’s entirely uncondemning face doesn’t look as if she considers him unworthy. There is no pity in her gentle face.

  Perhaps it’s Julian’s inability to look neutrally at the young woman that prompts Spurgeon to home in on him and Mirabelle as they sit primly in front of him. He appraises them with sober judgment. “So your uncle asked you to bring this man to me, did he?” His eyes rest on Mirabelle as his mind attempts to make sense of things. “How curious.” He addresses Julian. “Did I hear Mirabelle say you’ve misplaced your spectacles? No man can do a lick of work without a pair. Nora! Go into my cabinet at once and fetch me a pair of spectacles for Mr. Cruz. Yes, Nora, the ones Mr. Airy designed for me, the black and gold framed ones for this fine gentleman.”

  When the glasses are brought and Julian adjusts them on his face, Charles stuffs a book into his hands. The Collected Sermons of Charles Spurgeon. Julian smiles. “I hear this is a very good book, reverend.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard correctly, it’s excellent!”

  “This is by far not all of Charles’s wisdom,” Mirabelle says. “It contains barely 50 of his sermons. Charles has preached more than 600 times in the twelve months he’s been with us.”

  “When you put it like that, you make me sound verbose, Mirabelle.” Spurgeon laughs at himself. “Have you told Julian what you do for me?”

  “I haven’t had the chance.”

  “In her spare time, Mirabelle diligently prepares my sermons for publication for the weekly penny press at the British Museum. She is a fine editor. She’s got a keen eye for detail. It’s one of her many talents.”

  Mirabelle has spare time? As in time to spare? That is good to know.

  “How long are you in town, Mr. Cruz?”

  Julian hesitates to answer.

  Spurgeon becomes animated. “Mirabelle, are you thinking what I am thinking?”

  “I certainly hope not, Charles.”

  “Ha! You’ve always been a witty girl, Mirabelle.” Spurgeon turns to Julian. “It just so happens that Mirabelle’s assistant, the second proofreader, Mr. Newington, has taken ill. In his absence, Mirabelle and Mr. Patmore have been unable to keep up with the demands of my voluminous transcriptions.”

  Julian doesn’t know where Charles is headed with this.

  “Would you consider helping Mirabelle prepare my sermons for publication until Mr. Newington returns? We need someone with proofreading skills, good handwriting, meticulous attention to detail. Knowledge of English is helpful but not required.” Spurgeon smiles. “Love of the Lord helpful but not required. What do you say, good sir?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cruz, what do you say?” Mirabelle twinkles. “Do you love the Lord and know English?”

  “Don’t let Mirabelle put you off with her teasing,” Spurgeon says. “It’s just her way. She means no harm by it. You’ll be doing her and me a great service if you accept.”

  “Please don’t pressure him, Charles,” says Mirabelle.

  “Your sudden and welcome appearance in our midst is clearly God’s will to lessen Mirabelle’s burden,” Charles says. “Mirabelle, admit it, it’s remarkable. As always, blessings to the merciful God who has elected to help us, don’t you agree?”

  Mirabelle makes no sound. And by the fireplace, a chuffing Filippa and Prunella Pye do not sound as if they agree. They curdle like milk. Julian also doesn’t agree. “I’m afraid my time is accounted for while I’m in London,” he says. “But thank you for the offer.”

  “It’s only for a few weeks. Coventry Patmore will be glad to pay you.”

  “It’s not about the money, reverend…”

  “Please call me Charles. What is it, then? Really, I wouldn’t press the matter, but Mr. Newington’s vascular malformation and your nearly simultaneous appearance on our shores I cannot take as mere coincidence. You must feel it, too, no, that you were sent to help us?”

  Julian hedges, wavers.

  “What’s there to think about?” Charles says. “There is no tomorrow. The Lord’s work begins today.”

  “Never have truer words been said, pastor,” says Julian.

  “Charles.”

  “Charles. But I have urgent business that can’t be put off.”

  “Fine, take a day to think about it,” Charles says. “Why don’t you come tonight to Vine Cottage in Sydenham for supper with me, Mirabelle, and her family? I will introduce you to her parents who are dear friends of mine. I will ask them to host you while you’re working with their daughter. It’s the least they can do.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to do it…” A wordless stammer proceeds from Julian’s throat. Filippa jumps in.

  “You heard him—he doesn’t want to do it, reverend!”

  And Prunella: “Charles, do you really think it’s a good idea?”

  “Of course I do, Prunella, otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

  “There’s no reason or need for Mr. Cruz to work with Mirabelle,” Filippa cries.

  “I disagree, Pippa,” says Spurgeon. “I’ve just explained to you the reason and the need.”

  “Filippa is right,” Prunella says from behind her daughter’s chair. “Seems downright inhospitable to put a visiting professor to work.”

  “Nonsense. The man can speak for himself and tell me if I’ve overstepped my bounds. Julian, have I overstepped them, sir?”

  “Not yet,” says Julian.

  Spurgeon roars. “Not yet, he says! Oh marvelous, simply marvelous! Which means, I may overstep them imminently!”

  Prunella: “There is certainly no reason for him to stay at Vine Cottage…”

  “Mr. Cruz has traveled too far to be put up at an inn like a common Puritan trader,” says Spurgeon. “Mirabelle’s parents are the most welcoming sort. Aren’t they, Mirabelle? They sponsored me when I first came to London and didn’t know a soul. I lived with the Taylors nearly a year. We had a good time, Mirabelle, didn’t we?”

  “We did, Charles.”

  “Mirabelle is a fine equestrian, Julian. Have you ever ridden a horse? She can show you how. She is as excellent a teacher as I am a pastor.”

  “Surely the professor has better things to do than ride smelly horses with Mirabelle!” says Filippa.


  “Do you have better things to do, Mr. Cruz?”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Reverend!” Prunella Pye sputters forward. “It is most inappropriate. Maybe this is how they do things in Colchester. But here in London, a gentleman of unknown origins cannot gallivant with an unmarried woman, to-ing and fro-ing as if he’s a reprobate and she’s a harlot. It’s just not done!”

  Spurgeon casts his gaze on the man and woman in front of him. “Are you a reprobate, Mr. Cruz?” he asks. “Mirabelle, are you a harlot?”

  Julian keeps silent. Mirabelle keeps silent.

  “You see, Prunella, they both strongly deny it,” Spurgeon says. “Mr. Cruz is a man of God. It is obvious that you and Filippa see his goodness. You are certainly acting as if you do. Otherwise why invite him to a ball? The man has nothing but love in his heart.” Spurgeon smiles. “Fine—I will vouch for him myself. Will that put you at ease, Prunella, dear?”

  “It’s just not how it’s done, reverend,” Prunella doggedly repeats, casting a glance at Filippa as if to say, I’m doing all I can, dear heart. “You are putting a tremendous burden on Jack and Aubrey,” the woman continues. “Mirabelle’s father is not in the best of health. Neither is her mother. I told Aubrey when it happened—having a child at 44 was unbecoming. Did she listen to me? She called Mirabelle a miracle, and you are a wonderful girl, dear, don’t get me wrong, but with all the things a woman of nearly 45 giving birth implies, I’d call that not a miracle but a disgrace. And here is precisely what it leads to.”

  “What does it imply?” Spurgeon asks.

  “What does it lead to?” Mirabelle asks.

  “Never mind that,” the stiff woman says. “Pastor, Mirabelle’s fine work on your sermons doesn’t require an accompanying scandal, does it?”

  “Well, it doesn’t require it, Prunella, but it certainly benefits from it.” Spurgeon bursts with laughter. “Oh, please don’t make that face. I’m joking.”

  “This is hardly the time for hilarity.”

  “If you only knew, Prunella, how much humor I suppress, you’d grant me this small indulgence. Stop fretting. Our pilgrim is a paragon of virtue.”