“Oh, yes! I shall most assuredly try.” Georgiana gave her mother a brilliant smile. “Things are always so much clearer after I talk to you. It’s no wonder life has been uncomplicated for me with a mother like you.”
The duchess returned her daughter’s kiss on the cheek. “Now run along and dress for dinner.”
While at Badminton House, the Beauforts compromised between country and city hours and dined at six o’clock in the evening. Georgiana dressed for dinner in a pale green percale dress with bouilloned sleeves which were puffed to resemble the surface of a simmering pot. “Aggie, you may do my hair with the green grosgrain ribbon and yellow crepe flowers.” Georgiana sat on the small bench before her dressing table and dabbed a breath of Hungary water on her white shoulders.
Awhile later, after turning this way and that before a tall pier glass to observe the effect of the scallops of Mechlin lace on her gored skirt, Georgiana left her room. She smiled, her mind focused on all the good she would do for her cousin.
Her campaign was hampered, however, by the seating protocol that placed the eldest Ryder son present, Granville, next to the eldest Somerset daughter, Charlotte. So throughout the first course, Georgiana attended to her brother, who was her partner. But her mind was fixed on the couple across the table. And the more Granville and Charlotte laughed and chatted, the more Georgiana’s irritation rose. If her cousin preferred Charlotte’s light banter, then perhaps she wouldn’t tell him what was on her heart. She turned her attention to her food.
Since they were dining en famille, there were only three courses. The first course of soups at the head and foot of the table was being replaced by fish and saddle of mutton when Granville turned from Charlotte to Georgiana. “And did you have an agreeable afternoon, Georgie?”
Her irritation at him showing only by the tilt of her chin, Georgiana forced her brightest smile. “Quite delightful, thank you, sir. Mr. Agar-Ellis’s new grays are high-steppers, indeed, and he is a whip of the first rank. And our Gloucestershire country-side is incomparable.” If Granville found solace in Charlotte, she should do the same in George.
Charlotte then required her partner’s attention, and Georgiana turned back to her brother, Henry, who was speaking to Lord Harrowby. “It is Wellington’s judgment that the fact that the people of England are very quiet may explain the character of English religion.’’
“Do you take that to mean that the duke believes the English are religious because they are quiet and not quiet because they are religious?” The earl’s perpetual frown accompanied his words, and at first no one ventured an answer.
“I could wish some of the dissenters a little quieter in their religious enthusiasm,” replied the duke from the head of the table. “But it does seem that the democratic character of the nonconformists trains their members in administration and public speaking.”
“Indeed, I have observed that also,” the earl agreed. “But, fortunately, it is not necessary to go to the extreme of dissension for those happy effects. I find that those holding our Anglican Evangelical beliefs within the established church maintain serious and unselfish attitudes toward public affairs, which makes them valued public leaders. They use their wealth conscientiously to good and noble purposes, and they care nothing for popularity but strive without fail to do what is right.”
The duke motioned for the footmen to clear away the second course before continuing. “Quite right. Our friend William Wilberforce is a case in point. I suppose it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that no Englishman has done more to wake the conscience of the British people and to ennoble our public life.”
“You are quite right, my dear.” The duchess smiled at her husband. “I certainly feel for Mr. Wilberforce a deep affection and gratitude for his unstinting labors.”
The earl accepted a slice of gabena fowl from the footman. Then with one bite held on his fork, he resumed speaking. “Exactly right, my dear. As should all right-minded people. Just last night I finished reading Wilberforce’s Appeal in Behalf of the Negro Slaves in the West Indies. If it can receive a wide readership, his efforts to free these downtrodden people will surely succeed.”
The earl paused for a sip of wine, but no one ventured to interrupt his discourse, so he continued. “I’m no Bible thumper, but I do believe the most important fact of his work is that he builds it solidly upon the firm foundation of Scripture: ‘Woe unto him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness, and his chambers by wrong; that useth his neighbor’s service without wages, and giveth him not for his work.’ And ‘Do justice and love mercy.’ Surely no thinking person of any faith could take exception to that. But you must read it for yourselves to savor its power and rightness,” he admonished the whole table.
“Yes, but Mr. Wilberforce is getting much opposition from his old friend Canning,” commented Worcester. “The Foreign Secretary repeatedly warns him to stay silent for fear of upsetting the delicate balance in the West Indies. Wilberforce, of course, refuses to be warned.”
“Yes, I am certain opposition only makes him speak more forcibly,” the Earl of Harrowby agreed.
Worcester continued, “But Wilberforce needs a clearer strategy. Canning is sure to outgeneral him in Parliament.”
Harrowby cleared his throat. “Indeed, I hope not. Quite apart from the right of the matter, Wilberforce takes everything too much to heart. He once told me he believed that but for the all-atoning blood of Jesus Christ, he would be condemned everlastingly for his failure to rescue the slaves from bondage.”
“Nonsense!” Worcester said with vehemence. “He hasn’t failed. The fight continues.”
“Yes,” the earl agreed. “But when poor health strikes his frail constitution, he tends to become depressed.” The footman offered mashed potatoes trimmed with small slices of bacon, broccoli, and Jerusalem artichokes, and the earl turned to his food.
While the conversation continued at the other end of the table, Georgiana took a serving of carrots and turnips and of light suet dumplings. Then because she was feeling a twinge of remorse for the abruptness of her earlier reply to Granville, she turned to speak to him. Her softened feelings were short-lived, however, when she found him absorbed in a tale Charlotte was recounting about Fred Calthorpe’s new hunter.
So Georgiana spoke instead to Lord Harrowby, asking him about the achievements of The British and Foreign Bible Society of which he was a member.
“The work progresses, my dear, but it is hindered by rigid churchmen who fear that the circulation of the Bible without the prayer book will encourage dissent.”
“What we need are more Evangelicals like Bishop Ryder in high church office.” Worcester returned to a favored family topic.
“With men like Wilberforce and Simeon urging the appointment, it should happen soon,” Lord Harrowby replied.
“If Simeon is supporting him, surely the Duke of Gloucester is too?” the duchess enquired.
“Indeed, the entire Cambridge group is active in Ryder’s support,” the earl replied. “But many high churchmen are skeptical of giving him this greater scope for his energies by agreeing to translate him to a more prestigious dioceses.”
“The bishop’s best recommendation is his own attractive personality,” Lady Harrowby said. “As well as his keen mind. I’m assured the clergy of his present diocese did not welcome him warmly at first, but many of the prejudices against him vanished when they discovered he was a better scholar and divine than they themselves.”
“Excellent fellow,” agreed the duke, “and thoroughly loyal to the church even if he is a low churchman.”
Several footmen entered the room bearing silver salvers displaying a variety of ices.
“I suspect his vigor may put fear into some of his peers that similar dedication might be expected of them.” Lord Harrowby selected a raspberry ice. “He rarely preaches less than twice, often three times on a Sunday, besides weekly church lectures.”
“How true!” Lady Harrowby spoke with enthusiasm. “Oh
, I am sorry, my dear, did I interrupt you?” Before the earl could reply, however, she continued, “As well as spending his Sunday afternoons instructing the children in the Gloucester National School.”
“Well,” the duke added with a nod to the Earl, “coming from one of the best families in the nation doesn’t do him any harm either.”
The Earl of Harrowby raised his wine glass in acceptance of this tribute to his family. “I suspect, however, that his support from Cambridge will be decisive.”
“When I was a young man at Oxford, that was the center of evangelical activity; but due largely to Simeon’s work, the focus seems to have moved to Cambridge,” the duke observed.
“If I were a young man today, Cambridge is where I should wish to be,” the duchess said. Her warm brown eyes shone in the candlelight as brightly as the stones that adorned her amaranth pink turban. “Think of coming under the tutelage of Charles Simeon. What splendid young men he is instructing! I almost believe I’m sorry you didn’t go there, Henry,” she said to her eldest son. Then she turned to Granville. “Have you thought of going up to Cambridge?”
Before Granville could reply, his father spoke. “I shall secure a position for Granville in the Home Office.”
Granville slowly raised his white linen napkin to his mouth and regarded his father for several moments. No one spoke. Granville lowered his napkin. “I thank you for that suggestion, Father, but I shall go to Cambridge.”
Five
In spite of the skiff of late January snow covering the college courts and clogging the traffic in the narrow Cambridge streets, Granville was settled in time to matriculate for Lent term. His second floor rooms in G staircase were just to the right of the gate of Trinity College inside the Great Court. A visit to Elliott Smith’s furniture establishment close by Trinity Gate had yielded in a few hours’ time a bed, sofa, chairs, tables, and carpets. The furniture, sturdy if well-used, had served many a gownsman before Granville, as it would many after him, with each turnaround securing a tidy profit for Mr. Smith.
Granville crossed the larger of his two rooms, furnished as a parlor, and pulled the deep red moreen curtains across the window looking out on Trinity Street. The curtains’ color told their age since, as all college curtains, they had begun life a soft gray. When that shade was faded beyond recognition, they were dyed scarlet. As their age advanced, the shade of red deepened and darkened. The price of the draperies was thirded down from tenant to tenant at two-thirds cost until, in due time, it reached zero. Where, by rights, Granville had argued unsuccessfully, the price should have remained. But no. It then took an upward course, and the process began all over again at the seller’s valuation.
Granville shook his head at the dilapidated condition of his window hangings, then turned toward the dressing room where his gyp, the college-provided servant, had laid out the black satin knee breeches and white silk stockings that were de rigueur for dining in Hall. He made a move to begin the dressing process, but a knock at his door interrupted him.
“Hullo, Andy,” he greeted the gownsman who occupied the rooms just above his. Andrew Anderson was a Sizar, an impecunious scholar working his way through Trinity. Although Granville found his stairmate to be abnormally studious, his company was not unpleasant. “Come in. I’m just getting ready for Hall, although I must say eating dinner in midafternoon is something my stomach is not yet accustomed to.”
“Yes, I found that difficult at first, too. I won’t come in. Must change for dinner. Just stopped by to ask if you’d care to attend Simeon’s conversation party tonight? Now that everyone’s getting settled into term, there should be a good group of Sims on hand.” He referred to the followers of Charles Simeon.
“Very thoughtful of you, Andy. I might just do that. Been intending to drop in one night anyway. Perhaps I’ll see you after Combi.” That would give him more time to decide whether to go. But Combi must come first. The double flow of wit and wine in the combination room was a necessary conclusion to Hall.
Anderson’s visit made Gran reflect on his early weeks in Cambridge. Although he had come here determined to solve his spiritual dilemma, he had allowed the time so far merely to slide by. It seemed that each day offered a new amusement with lighthearted friends which he had yet to refuse. When he thought about his problem in moments of introspection, he found that, on the whole, it was much easier simply to put it aside for later.
Now he argued with himself. Perhaps attending Simeon’s group was what he needed. On the other hand, if he found no answers there, he would be more depressed than before. He shied from taking the risk, yet he did need to put it to the test. Maybe tonight.
Granville had only removed his jacket and boots before the next knock came at his door. His gyp answered and ushered Freddie Perkins into the room. Frederick Oswald Perkins sat next to Granville in Hall, and they had become good friends through sharing the long hours of boredom in the formal service.
“Somerville’s turn to host Club tonight. Should be good sport.” Freddie threw himself into a soft chair, doing violence to his formal attire and knocking his stiff, flat hat askew. “Just laid in two dozen more port. Told me so!”
“I’m thinking of giving it a miss tonight, Perkins. I’ve been invited to attend Charles Simeon’s conversation party.”
Freddie sat bolt upright, his face looking thunderstruck. “Shouldn’t do that. Not the thing at all. You’ll find it devilishly boring. Bad ton.”
“I wouldn’t be going for the purpose of raising my social standing.” Granville achieved a perfect crease in the waterfall he was tying with his stiffly starched cravat.
“You can’t be thinking of doing it for amusement!” Perkins looked even more shocked. “It really won’t do. They drink tea. And talk—” He stole a quick glance upward as if to see if he was being overheard. “—about God. Oh.” His face broke into a wide grin. “Bamming me, ain’t you?”
“Not at all, Perkins. I had thought of attending for purposes of enlightenment.” Ryder slipped a black academic gown trimmed with gold lace over his other garments and donned the soft cap that proclaimed him to be a nobleman before moving to the door.
“Sounds cork-brained to me.” Freddie shook his head as he followed his friend out the door. “You’d best come to Somerville’s with me. He serves the best claret at Trin.”
Granville laughed off his friend’s protestations and strode along the path beside the green grass of Great Court, past the Renaissance fountain, and into Hall. He paused to inscribe the Buttery Book, “The Hon. G. Ryder,” and tossed his gown and cap on a table provided for that purpose. Then he took his seat at the far end of the long room with Freddie and other friends.
At the table he found Meredyth Somerville, the Hon. Francis Molyneaux, and Lord William Hervey in conversation. “…this evening? The usual, I daresay—whist to ten, a moderate supper. Then we’ll declare Club officially closed and allow deeper gaming—more to the sporting taste.” Somerville raised his eyebrows in something approaching a leer.
As Granville tried to determine his course for the evening ahead, he surveyed his surroundings. The Hall of Trinity could easily have modeled for an ornate version of Beowulf’s mead hall with its high, dark, beam-vaulted ceiling and long rows of benched tables—or so it seemed to Granville. But no ancient Danish king could ever have dreamt of the intricately ornate carving enriched with deep red, blue, and gold paint at both ends of the room. Nor could Beowulf’s Heorot Hall have boasted the glories of stained glass that filled every window.
From the top of his long table beneath the blazoned arms of Trinity supported by rampant gold lion and silver unicorn, Granville looked out across the warm glow of candles lining the tables. The bay alcoves to either side of the fellows’ dais gave the room the proportions of a cathedral—or more precisely, the shape of a cross. And the image brought forcefully to his mind his own spiritual turmoil. The introspection he had avoided by concentrating on new friends and new experiences suddenly pushed its way to
the forefront, and he knew he would have to deal with it soon. Why did even the shape of the room have to mock his quandry? Couldn’t he at least eat his dinner in peace? Surely Beowulf’s Hrothgar had the better part—to be haunted by Grendel, a monster of form and substance, rather than by the specter that followed him.
In the interval between terms, a pair of blackbirds had made their nest atop the ornamental carved screen at the far end of the room. Attracted now by the crumbs dropped by the dining gownsmen, the small dark birds fluttered about in the alcove windows and flew to the top of the wainscoting behind the fellows’ table. Then the braver of the two birds hopped onto the table right in front of Granville. But in his present mood, even this failed to amuse him. In the stained-glass window to his left, a white dove descended to announce Christ’s acceptance by His Heavenly Father. Why was it a black bird approaching Granville?
All right. I will go to Simeon’s party. It seemed unlikely that any counseling could help him find solace, but he would hear what the venerable man had to say. After all, Simeon was a particular friend of Granville’s aunt, the duchess, so it would be churlish of him not to pay a call.
At the end of Hall, gownsmen strolled back across the court to the social room they called Combi. “Draw the curtains,” Lord Hervey called out to the porter on duty in the room. “We don’t want to attract the attention of the townies on the street.”
“Those stones they threw last time came devilishly close to shattering the windows.” Frank Molyneaux tossed his cap and gown on the table near the door.
“Hope they try it, maggoty lot. I’d like to draw their corks!” Freddie flung himself into a chair with a force that moved it at least two inches closer to the wall. He took a glass of the heady port wine that was being passed around. “Hear, hear.” He raised his glass. “Drink to gown.” He put his glass to his lips, then stopped. “I say, Ryder, you ain’t got a glass.”
Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Page 5
