Destinations

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  Her mouth twisted into a chastising curl. “If I were not certain you speak in jest, I would take offense to your remark, Dr. Amory.”

  “I suspect you shall be in need of a sense of humor to witness for the Lord, especially in a Methodist household. What is that expression they use when the weather is foul?”

  Lavonia knew the answer all too well. “There is nothing out today but crows and Methodist preachers.”

  “Yes, they are a hardy lot, are they not?” William chuckled.

  “They must be robust to maintain their schedules. Preach-ing at five in the morning then again each evening, seven days a week, with travel in between, can break a noble constitution as well as one’s health. But the rewards have been great. Our denomination has experienced tremendous growth in the colonies. In some parts, Methodists offer the only available religious service.” Speaking about the success of Methodism gave Lavonia a surge of pride in the accomp-lishments of the ministers. “Our Methodist circuit riders are quite dedicated to the Lord’s cause.”

  “Speaking of dedication to a cause, I am surprised to hear you say Vicar Gladstone preached a sermon on flattery this morning.” William chuckled. “Considering his campaign for a London parish, certainly he makes good employ of artful words. I should have liked to see him preach on guile while trying to keep a serious expression!”

  Lavonia joined his laughter. “Indeed, I would have en-joyed witnessing such a sermon myself. But it was not Vicar Gladstone who preached, but Vicar Weems.”

  “No wonder.” He gave her a knowing nod. “So you find worship at your cousin’s church appealing?”

  “I suppose. Though I do confess, I miss the Methodist meetings Father conducted.”

  William seemed surprised. “You mean to say, he was a Methodist preacher?”

  “Not exactly.” Lavonia hesitated. “He was a businessman by trade. But he preached as the Lord called.”

  “He was a lay preacher, then.”

  Lavonia nodded.

  “What an unusual circumstance for an English businessman to espouse Methodism. Surely remaining an Anglican, as the majority of his colleagues most assuredly were, would have proven more profitable?”

  “Father was not as interested in profits as he was in people, especially after he experienced his conversion.” Lavonia sighed. “If only I could influence Helen. . .”

  “Your cousin is a bit strong-willed,” William observed, “so I would not become discouraged if I were you. Though I confess, I feared you might not go with me today, lest she should object.”

  Her conscience gave Lavonia a prick as she remembered how she stepped lightly out of the house without so much as a “by your leave” from Helen. “What she does not know will not harm us,” Lavonia said, trying to keep her voice light.

  “Indeed?” William’s eyebrows arched. “I am not certain I would wish to face Mrs. Syms when she is angered.”

  “I shall worry about the consequences later.”

  When he didn’t answer, Lavonia studied his profile. Dark, boyish curls peeked from under his hat, their impishness contrasting with his straight nose. William’s mouth was set in a soft line, suggesting that anything the least bit funny could send him into thundering laughter. His eyes seemed to be drinking in the blue sky, so rare after a week of drizzling rain. The horse’s rhythmic clopping offered a soothing sound in accompaniment to the occasional gust of breeze. After the turmoil of Aunt Amelia’s visit and Katherine’s bouts of illness, Lavonia found she was in no humor to break the spell of the comfortable, meditative silence.

  A few moments later, nervousness swept over her as they made the turn onto the dirt road leading past strawberry fields and on to the Stones’ house where a few buggies and horses were hitched in the side yard. “You did not tell me there would be other people here.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No,” she answered too quickly. “I only wish you would tell me why we are here.”

  “Has your trust in me diminished?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then be patient. I promise you will be pleasantly surprised.”

  Several people were approaching the house on foot. Most were strangers to her. But some of them, such as the local shopkeeper, had become familiar since she first arrived. Their simple modes of dress indicated most were of modest means, though a few were dressed in the finery of the wealthy. She wondered what all these people could have in common to cause them to assemble here.

  The touch of William’s hand, clad in kidskin gloves, took her mind off her musings as he helped her exit the carriage. His touch was all too brief, ending as soon as her feet lit upon the ground. He gave her a reassuring smile. As she smiled in return, her glance caught the Bible he carried in the crook of his arm.

  “Why did you bring your Bible?”

  “Do you not take your Bible to church?” he teased.

  “Church? But this is not—”

  He shook his head back and forth quickly, causing her to cease her objections. Without warning, an idea materialized. But no. It could not be.

  All was quiet when they entered the large kitchen. There were no chairs, save two occupied by elderly ladies. Had chairs been offered, space would not have permitted everyone to sit as the room filled with worshipers.

  Soon after she and William arrived, the ceremony began. Lavonia easily joined in the singing of “O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing” without musical accompaniment or hymn books. The hymn, written by John Wesley’s brother Charles, was already a Methodist standard. Charles had proven a prolific writer of hymns during his lifetime. Lavonia had heard he wrote at least one hymn a day, totaling somewhere between 6,000 and 8,000.

  Stealing a look at William, she saw his face alight with joy as he sang without hesitation in a pleasing baritone. Though she had admired his countenance upon many occasions, he was more radiant at that moment than she had ever observed. She wondered how long he had shared her faith, and she wondered about the conversion that allowed him to accept Methodism along with the free salvation offered only through the blood of Jesus Christ.

  Unlike the learned clergy of other denominations, Mr. Stone preached extemporaneously, without any papers or notes. The verse he selected was Matthew 5:29: “And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.”

  Lavonia had heard sermons on this verse on numerous occasions. Methodists were enthusiastic about ridding themselves of sin in hopes of one day achieving what John Wesley called “Christian Perfection.” For over an hour, Mr. Stone admonished his congregation to purge themselves of all manner of sin or suffer consequences too dire to be contemplated by human imaginations. His warnings, delivered in a melodious cadence, were punctuated by enthusiastic gestures, pacing, and colorful facial expressions. His efforts were rewarded by shouts, crying, clapping, and confessions.

  The style of worship was alien to the staid formality of the church where Lavonia and her family attended before her own conversion. There, the learned clergyman read dry sermons from prepared text. The congregation followed the service by rote, demonstrating little, if any, emotion. Lavonia relished the Methodist enthusiasm, but Katherine had been disappointed when her parents and Lavonia had pledged their allegiance to Methodism, and she had continued to worship at the Anglican church.

  Lavonia’s musings were interrupted by the benediction. After thanking Mr. Stone for the insights he offered in his sermon and Mrs. Stone for her hospitality, Lavonia was introduced to many of the other parishioners. Many gave her and William curious looks, as if wondering if William were her suitor. Feelings of triumph and self-satisfaction welled inside her when she noticed a few envious glances from women who wore no wedding bands.

  My pride reminds me I have far to go before attaining Christian perfection.

  “So, how did you like my little surprise?” William asked as they left the
meeting and headed for the waiting carriage. A smug look covered his handsome features.

  “Surprised I am,” she admitted. “And you allowed me to chatter at length about Methodism. What a bore I must be!”

  “Au contraire, Miss Penn. I found what you had to say quite interesting.”

  “But certainly you must know all about Methodism. Although I admit, I never suspected you are one of us.”

  “Oh?” Taking her elbow, he assisted her as she climbed into the carriage. “What faith did you think I practiced?”

  Lavonia moved so he could take his place beside her on the bench. “I suppose I did not think you had much faith at all.”

  He looked puzzled. “Why?”

  She hesitated, averting her eyes to her shoes. “Do you want the truth?”

  “Yes,” she heard him answer.

  “All right, then.” Still focusing on her shoes, she replied, “All reports of you and your past have not been favorable ones.” Having delivered the blow, she cut her glance to him and saw him wince.

  “What reports?”

  “Are you certain you wish to know?”

  “Does not everyone wish to know what is said behind their back?” Though his tone was light, she knew he was serious. She waited as he clucked his tongue against his teeth, signaling the horse to move.

  Sighing, she knew it would be a long journey home.

  twelve

  William’s stomach churned as he watched Lavonia summon the courage to speak. Her blue eyes had taken on a distressed light. Her pink lips were slightly parted, though no words escaped. Her face, the color of purest cream by nature, had turned several shades whiter. And her usual fire had been replaced by the posture of a nervous woman he didn’t recognize, who was picking imaginary lint from her dress and shifting in her seat.

  How much had she heard? And how will I answer the charges?

  He wished he hadn’t asked for the details, but he had to know what she had heard. Otherwise, how could he fight back? He prayed that whatever Lavonia had heard wouldn’t keep her from loving him. Though he knew it would be wise to discuss the past some time during their courtship, William had hoped the bad news could wait until Lavonia had fallen for him as deeply as he had fallen for her. Perhaps that notion would not be considered fair play, but he already had obstacles enough with her cousin’s objections.

  Lavonia’s sweet voice interrupted his anxious thoughts. “Dr. Amory—”

  “Please,” he blurted, “call me William.”

  A brief smile lit her features. Just as quickly, a look of doubt replaced it. “Are you certain such familiarity between us would be proper?”

  “I would prefer it, yes.” He paused. “Unless you are not comfortable—”

  “Oh yes, I am.” Her gaze fell to her shoes. “But I would not want to be so forward that you begin to think I am not a lady.”

  William held back a chuckle. The high-spirited Miss Penn, though unmistakably a lady, bore no resemblance to the reticent, priggish maidens who took pride in being called a lady, while their stodgy demeanors kept them always at arms’ length.

  He pulled the carriage to the side of the road. A clearing of emerald-colored grass surrounded by dogwood trees with pink and white blooms invited them to sit and enjoy God’s creation. Pausing for a moment, he let his eyes drink in the beauty of the isolated area.

  Lavonia’s voice interrupted his meditation. “Why did you pull over? Is something amiss?”

  “Quite the contrary, Miss Penn. I have yet another surprise for you.” Looking her full in the face, he gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring.

  Lavonia eyed the clearing. “But we have no chaperone.”

  “Quite true. But I would not wish your sister to suffer another bout of illness as a result of an outdoor excursion.”

  “Agreed. Perhaps Helen—”

  “Do you indeed want your cousin to join us?”

  She hesitated. “Her presence would assure—”

  “Nothing. Except perhaps some entertainment. We could find some amusement in watching her dramatics, n’est pas?”

  “Soidisant.” A roll of her eyes and a slight curl of her lips confirmed that she agreed.

  “Now for the reason I brought you here.” Reaching behind the seat, William pulled out a picnic basket and set it on his lap. “Will you consent to dine with me today, Miss Lavonia Penn?”

  After the slightest pause, she answered, “Oui, Monsieur.”

  With a gallant wave of one hand, he extended the other to assist her from the carriage. The mere touch of her soft fingers sent a feeling that could only be described as a bolt of lightning through his being. So as not to lose his composure, he hastened to tie his faithful horse, General, to a sturdy pine tree. After stroking General a few times on his chestnut brown neck and speaking words of praise to the animal, William turned his attention to Lavonia, who had been observing him in silence, a smile on her face.

  Choosing a level spot in the shade, William placed an old blue wool blanket on the ground and motioned for her to sit upon it. Before taking his own seat, he set a smaller embroidered white linen tablecloth next to her and two matching napkins on top.

  “I did not imagine a bachelor would be so well equipped,” she noted.

  “I am afraid I must confess to not being as prepared as you imagine, Miss Penn. I borrowed these from my landlady.”

  Lavonia looked suspicious. “With her consent, of course.”

  “Let us just say, with the same ‘by your leave’ as your cousin gave you to be with me.”

  “TouchО.” She watched him take several slices of cold roast and a small round of fresh sourdough bread from the basket. A bunch of red grapes, enough to provide ample servings for them both, emerged. Upon eyeing them, a look of delight crossed her lovely features. “What luxury, to partake of such beautiful grapes this early in the season. Your landlady must run a lavish establishment.”

  Had he already been eating the grapes, William would have choked with laughter. “Mrs. Potter’s boarding establishment is hardly a lavish place. In fact, I suspect my comrades there will be feasting on porridge tonight.” Plucking one of the grapes, he held it up for inspection. “These grapes, ma cherie, were purchased from the market, at a very steep price. Imported from Italy, or so the merchant said.”

  Lavonia’s mouth formed a small circle. “Then I shall eat them very slowly.”

  “Indulge as you like, as long as you enjoy them.” Searching near the bottom of the basket, he found a silver flask wrapped in a napkin. Though it was not as chilly as when he packed it, the bottle was still cool, much to his satisfaction.

  “What is in there?” More than a little admonition colored Lavonia’s voice.

  “Le cidre, naturellement.” To prove he was telling the truth, he withdrew a set of silver goblets and poured a few swallows of cider into each. He handed her a glass. “Were you expecting, say, a smooth cognac?” he asked, knowing well that their faith did not permit them to drink, nor to purchase or sell, intoxicating beverages.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You!” Though she seemed to be attempting to sound serious, a peal of merriment escaped her lips.

  He raised his glass in a toast. “To beauty.”

  “To beauty.”

  Though she made a show of looking at the blossoming trees, her cheeks nevertheless turned a most appealing shade of red. Then their eyes locked. He wished the moment could last an eternity.

  Breaking free from his gaze, she turned her attention to the roast. “Let us not forget this delicious food. It would be most regrettable if your trouble were for naught.”

  William took a piece of bread and bit into it as he watched Lavonia place a thin slice of beef on her bread, then partake of it with delicate bites. He found himself imagining what it would be like to share every meal with her. With Lavonia as his dinner companion, their earlier topic of conversation almost faded from William’s memory. He hoped she could forget, too.

  “This is indeed th
e finest beef I have ever tasted,” she said.

  Realizing Lavonia wasn’t given to hyperbole, William smiled with pleasure. Every penny he spent bribing Miss Potter’s cook to bake the roast to perfection had been worth the price.

  Having satiated her appetite, Lavonia stared at the sky. She was silent for a time before surveying the grandeur around them. “And you selected the perfect place to picnic.”

  “Merci.”

  “And,” she ventured, “this is a most ideal place to hear the reading of poetry. Perhaps one written by Dr. William Amory, presented in its entirety?”

  “I am not much of a poet,” he protested, even though her question pleased him. “Do you really wish to hear my ramblings?”

  “Of course!”

  “By happenstance, I have the poem with me today,” he said, keeping his voice light to downplay that he had brought it in case she inquired. Whipping the paper out of a coat pocket, he proceeded to unfold it with flourish. He cleared his throat as if preparing for a great ceremony.

  Lavonia giggled, but his look of mock admonishment caused her to put on a straight face.

  He read:

  I met an angel here today

  Comforting her sister’s heart.

  She knew not that she pierced mine own.

  Or how it cries when we must part—

  In the foreground of my mind

  I hold a watercolor view

  And long to sharpen its image

  As I have been dreaming of you.

  “Such a beautiful poem,” she whispered. “No one has ever written a verse to me.”

  “Then the men of your past acquaintance must have been both blind and dull.”

  “I must say, I can see why it is rumored you are quite the ladies’ man.” She threw him a crooked smile, finished the last drops of cider remaining in her goblet, and patted her lips dry.

  Jarred by her observation, William didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swirled his half goblet of cider in circles, causing the liquid to swish gently. Her revelation came as no surprise. Though many a woman had batted her eyes at him, even at the height of his roguish ways, William seldom accepted their unspoken invitations. Yet he knew his rakish reputation remained bloated beyond reality and persisted even though God had changed his life years ago.