Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  And the fact remained that whatever Granville might or might not feel for her, she cared deeply for him. No matter what the future might hold, even if they were destined never to be more to each other than dear friends, she longed for his happiness and spiritual wholeness.

  “Oh!” With a cry of frustration Georgiana looked at the blot of ink she had allowed to fall from her quill onto the piece of parchment stationery. Crumpling the crisp paper and determining to keep her mind on the task at hand, she bent over her letter. Since she had no idea how Granville felt about her, it was imperative that her tone be light, that she make it clear she was writing as her mother’s emissary, and that she impart her information as briefly as possible.

  It took two more sheets of the duchess’s costly paper before Georgiana was pleased with her efforts. She read it over once more, then sat considering, a frown creasing her forehead. She couldn’t sign a letter to her Granville with nothing more than her name. Memories of that evening almost a year ago brought back his troubled countenance, and she longed to offer him solace. But at this distance in time and space, and with so many uncertainties…

  At last she penned a final line, dusted it with sand to dry the ink, folded the paper, sealed it with a wax wafer, and entrusted it to the Royal Mail.

  Several days later Granville and Freddie were taking morning coffee in Granville’s rooms when they heard a loud knocking on the outer oak door. The gyp crossed the room quickly and opened the portal to admit Revesby, Freddie’s tutor.

  “Come along. Time for chapel, Perkins.” The intruder held out Freddie’s academic gown.

  “Dash it all!” Freddie ran his fingers through his tousled locks. “When’s a fellow supposed to relax? Bad ton, getting out early. Deuced unfair. Ryder don’t have to.”

  “As you well know, sir, Mr. Ryder is the son of a nobleman, therefore exempted from attending lectures, exercises, and examinations. None of which applies to you, Mr. Perkins, who are required to earn your degree.”

  “Afraid he’s right, Perkins.” Granville grinned.

  “That’s fine for you to say! Your crammie ain’t encroaching.” Freddie shot Revesby a baleful look.

  “I flatter myself that Mr. Peacock knows his place,” Granville replied, then smiled. “Not that he wouldn’t bearlead me if he could. Now be a good chap and go along, Perkins.”

  “Well, I don’t like it above half.” Freddie grumpily shrugged into his academic robe. “Tell Somerville I’ll work on the bonfire before Hall.” With that parting shot he was shepherded off to compulsory chapel and lectures.

  As the door closed behind them, Granville gave a silent cheer for the Elizabethan code that allowed the university to confer the MA degree upon the sons of peers who met the sole requirement of six terms of residence. In the navy he had rebelled at the automatic advancement for sons of noblemen; but now that he had decided to relax and abandon his efforts at earning his way—in the spiritual realm or the secular, he was willing to accept the privileges of his rank.

  He had, however, put his name down for several lectures on philosophy, mathematics, and the classics. With the beginning of Michaelmas term he resolved to attend enough of them to be able to follow their content, yet not with such slavishness as to cut up his peace.

  And since his decision to give up his spiritual struggle last term, his days had been filled with a sort of peace—or at least enough activity to keep him from worrying about the condition of his soul.

  As in the spring, the days of the new term were filled with sporting events and the nights with card parties. One day Hervey accepted a challenge to race his tilbury pulled by a high-stepping bay against Somerville’s blood gray along the narrow roads crossing the fields outside Cambridge. Another day everyone drove to Royston to view a mill between a prize student of Gentlemen Jackson and the Champion Molyneaux. As well as attracting gownsmen, the event drew all the Corinthians from as far away as London. Then there was a cockfight in Wellingborough between a noted Wednesbury gray and a much-touted red pyle. Somerville declared the pyle “not nearly up to snuff,” but Frank Molyneaux favored it because of the similarity of its coloring to his own. That outing required an overnight stay and drove Freddie’s conscientious crammie nearly to distraction. And, of course, at the end of each event, in the best tradition of sportsmanship, the defeated team stood drinks for everyone.

  It all left very little time for serious endeavors at academia or for spiritual development. And except for an occasional strained look about the mouth or an unaccountable furrowing of the brows, there was nothing to show that Granville Ryder had a care in the world.

  Only in times of quiet contemplation when he returned tired and empty after an evening’s revel did Granville acknowledge any spiritual struggles. Then he often found himself comparing his present state with the contentment and assurance he had known as a boy. Once in a book of religious poetry he came across lines by his mother’s favorite poet William Cowper that sent him into long moments of soul-searching.

  Where is the blessedness I knew

  When I first saw the Lord?

  Where is the soul-refreshing view

  Of Jesus and his word?

  What peaceful hours I once enjoyed!

  How sweet their memory still!

  But then a new amusement would require his attention and the spiral would begin again.

  Currently, the passion gripping every loyal Trinitarian was the determination to win St. John’s challenge to see which college could build the biggest bonfire in a practice run for Bonfire night just over a month from now. Today the victor would be proclaimed. The gregarious Merry Somerville had taken the lead in defending Trinity’s honor, and for several days crews had been at work scouring the surrounding countryside for firewood. Since early morning sentries had stood guard at the selected spot to protect Trinity’s mountain of wood.

  By noon Freddie’s enthusiasm reached such consuming proportions that Revesby threw up his hands in despair and joined in the scramble for firewood, theorizing that the sooner the wretched pile was built, the sooner he could get his charge back to his books.

  Feeling uneasy about the wasted time, however, Granville attended his early afternoon lectures and then translated two poems of Hesiod, so that after Hall it was with the exuberance of a clear conscience that he joined in the bonfire festivities. The sun was setting, leaving only a thin ring of orange light at the edge of the darkening sky over the fens, when Granville arrived in his phaeton.

  Cries of “Sear and scorch!” rang around the pile as Merry approached with a blazing torch. He circled the huge conical pile of wood three times before he stopped, bowed low to the company, and with dignity due the occasion, touched the torch to the base of the pile. A great cheer rose as the flames crackled, blazed, and then soared upward through the wood.

  Across the fields dots of blazing light rose where Caius, John’s, King’s, Peterhouse, and the other colleges had chosen to meet the challenge. Sounds of clinking glass and boisterous laughter mingled with the snap and crackle of the flames as the gownsmen passed around flasks and bottles. In several small groups ringed around the light of the fire, gamesters began rattling the ivories.

  “A pair of sixes!” Merry called to those in his circle, their faces lighted by the wavering orange light. Bets were placed and the ivories rattled again. Granville’s slow smile parted his lips. This was like many a night spent in his early days at sea when the sailors gathered around the light of lanterns on deck and the roll of dice provided one of the few entertainments available. He could almost feel the sea swell below the boards as he placed his bet.

  The punters became more and more engrossed until the cry of “Town!” brought them to attention. In the constant state of warfare between town and gown, the bonfires provided a perfect occasion to test the relative strength of their forces.

  “A mill!” shouted Freddie, who was no more than two sheets to the wind from the liquor he had consumed. Others joined the cry and set on the a
dvancing townsmen. Granville had no desire to take part in a fracas he considered to be inelegant at best and childish at worst. But no such considerations held his friends back. Caps flew in the air, and the sound of running feet signaled the arrival of gownsmen from other bonfires.

  Granville stood aloof surveying the affray much as he had surveyed the duke’s ballroom less than a year ago. And now, as then, his appearance of austere hauteur was due not to any inherent snobbery, but rather to the intense inward struggle from which he could never truly escape. The longing for inner tranquility that he had for several months kept subdued now surfaced with a raw ache as the scene before him suggested an image of hellfire to his tender conscience. The flames leaped ever higher, belching clouds of black smoke. Whenever the hungry tongues reached a branch filled with pitch, a small explosion would fill the night with a shower of sparks, causing Granville to flinch as if he had been burnt.

  As the mayhem increased, the brawling figures were silhouetted against the orange flames like grotesque demons in a ritualistic coven… like Granville’s own demons that taunted him—You’ll never be worthy. Every time you try to master virtue, you slip further into weakness and vice. You came to Cambridge hoping to gain merit, but you’ve lost self-respect in a constant round of gaming and brawls. Look at you! Imaginary fiends leapt at him from the fire.

  The blazing fury beckoned him to join in the revel, to abandon restraint, to embrace the freedom of the moment. He took a step toward the flames, then paused. The choice was clear: The frenzied figures beckoned. The flames leapt. He could go forward or turn away. Submit or escape.

  The scene for Granville was no longer a simple college festival but the embodiment of the struggle he had waged for years. How simple it would be to surrender, what a relief to join his friends, how easy to give up the contest…

  And then he thought of Georgiana—her caring, her faith in him. He turned his back on the flames and focused his thoughts on his cousin. All desire to join the carousing evaporated.

  A sharp cry made him turn again to the fire just in time to see a burly townsman break a heavy cudgel over Freddie’s head. His friend sank bleeding to the ground. As the assailant raised his weapon for another blow—which would likely be fatal—Granville rushed toward him. Moving with the speed and grace gained from years of military training, he caught the man’s raised forearm and brought it down hard across his own upraised knee. The cudgel dropped from the ruffian’s hand, and he howled, “Broke me arm ’e ’as! What’s a swell like you doin’ interferin’ in a man’s sport?” The man lunged at Granville. Ryder sidestepped neatly, tripping the attacker.

  Before the man could right himself, Granville grabbed Freddie by the lapel of his coat, pulled him from the mill, and shoved him into his phaeton. In the relative quiet of his carriage, Granville hastily staunched Freddie’s bleeding wound by making a compress of a handkerchief. Then he drove back to the college, leaving the roaring fire and violence behind.

  Hauling the semiconscious Freddie up the dimly lit staircase, Granville gained his room without attracting the attention of the vice-master living on the ground floor or of the college porters who would no doubt make their way out to the fields soon to break up the fight. By the time Freddie began coming around, Granville had him propped in a chair before the fire, had rung for Creighton with orders for hot water and bandages, and was removing Freddie’s cravat.

  Mistaking Granville for his assailant, the rummy Freddie surged unsteadily to his feet, flailing with his fists. “Come on. Raise your maulies!”

  “Perkins, please try not to make more of a cake of yourself than necessary.” Granville pushed his friend back into his chair.

  Freddie flopped heavily into the cushions. “Gran?” He blinked to clear his vision. “I say, what happened?”

  “Some people have strange notions of what constitutes an evening’s pleasure.” Granville dabbed at the cut still oozing blood on Freddie’s head. Creighton, holding the basin of water, began to turn gray as the water in the basin grew increasingly brighter red with repeated dippings of the cloth.

  “Give me that before you fall into it.” Granville took the basin from the gyp. “See what you can do about repairing Mr. Perkins’s coat. I hardly dare hope his neck cloth can be rescued. Then I think some strong tea would be in order.”

  The gyp gathered up the ravaged garments and bowed his way out of the room.

  By the time the bleeding stopped and the tea had restored Freddie’s equilibrium, the night was far spent. Rather than take Freddie across the court to his room, Granville tucked him in his own bed and stretched out on the sofa himself. It seemed little more than a matter of minutes until the bell of St. Mary’s tolled six times, sounding surprisingly close in the heavy morning air.

  “Can’t they muffle that thing? Deuce of a headache.” Freddie sat up and moaned, holding his head.

  “Well, we aren’t likely to get any more sleep now. Let’s go for a walk to clear our heads,” Granville proposed.

  Freddie rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. “Come on, Boy,” he called to the drowsy spaniel who had stayed by his master’s side throughout the fracas. Boy crawled out from under the bed in an attitude of sorely-put-upon obedience.

  Granville stared at the dog for a moment. “Why you don’t keep that mongrel in the stables I don’t understand.”

  “It won’t do. He worships me. Sulks when I’m gone,” Freddie protested. Then he brightened as Granville grinned at him and his dog. “Oh, you’re roasting me, aren’t you?”

  The two early morning strollers were the only moving figures about as they crossed Trinity Bridge. All of the previous night’s revelers were sleeping off their overindulgence. Granville and Freddie paused to watch the Cam’s slow, smooth waters flowing inkily beneath them in the predawn light. A lone duck glided past in search of an early snail.

  As they reached the footpath beneath King James’s elms along the Backs, they quickened their pace. They continued in silence, breathing deeply of the fresh, moist air that still retained a slight smokiness from last night’s bonfires. The fallen leaves were damp from autumn rains, and a thin mist clung to the ground. Tree branches over their heads took on a delicate beauty as the gray sky gave way to the spreading pink glow of dawn. It would be a fine day. Granville stopped and held up his hand for silence. Freddie put his hand on Boy to silence him likewise. For some moments they stood listening to the tiny rustles and scurries among the leaves and branches—small animals hurrying to gather their autumn food stores before winter.

  If life could always be pure and clear and simple like this moment, Granville thought. He felt he could stand there for hours, just listening as he so often had on board the Glendower. But the fresh air and exercise had cleared Freddie’s head and awakened his appetite. They retraced their steps more briskly than they had come. Boy, now fully awake also, bounded ahead of them, a russet streak among the brown and amber foliage.

  Back in his room, Granville gave two sharp pulls on the bell cord hanging by his bed. Creighton entered bearing brass cans of hot water and steaming pots of coffee with milk. He then exited with equal equanimity, carrying two pairs of boots, their shine dulled by the recent excrusion through damp grass and leaves.

  The young men washed quickly in the hot water and then turned to the coffee awaiting them on the small, round table in the middle of the room.

  “My gyp’s stealing again,” Freddie commented as he poured coffee and milk simultaneously into his cup. “Sack of coals a week, regular as can be… tea, sugar, pocket handkerchiefs. Caught him red-handed. Said he was taking ’em to the laundry, but I knew better.”

  “Why don’t you change gyps?” Granville poured his coffee.

  “No odds at improvement. All alike.” Freddie shrugged.

  “Literally a den of thieves, huh? I suppose they’re only living up to their name.”

  Freddie took a sip of coffee and scowled. He didn’t understand the allusion.

  “Gyp—from a
Greek word signifying a vulture.” Granville stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup.

  “Well, Creighton’s the best of good fellows. You’re lucky to have him. Still, don’t hurt to keep one’s valuables tucked away.”

  As if on cue, the rotund form of the good fellow Creighton returned with the morning post. On top was a letter to Granville bearing a ducal crest and franked by the Duke of Beaufort. As Freddie was occupied feeding snips of toast to Boy, Granville opened the letter straightaway without apology.

  September

  My dear cousin,

  I shall endeavor not to be angry at you for your lack of communication as I am sure you must be much occupied by your studies. But I must say I do not think it very obliging in you not to inform my mama of your health.

  However that may be, as it is Wednesday morning, I am faithful to my promise to my mama to help her with her correspondence and have got my pen in hand to write to inform you that we shall descend upon you in a fortnight. We shall stay at The Rose where Mama and Papa are to attend a meeting of Mr. Wilberforce’s Society for the Mitigation and Gradual Abolition of Slavery Throughout the British Dominions. Their daughters are longing for some stimulating society, which I trust Cambridge might supply. Cannot you round up a simple country ball or rustic fair for our entertainment?

  Which is the earnest request of (if she may presume to call herself so),

  Your ever-affect. cousin,

  G.S.

  The letter fell to the table, its reader torn between despair and delight. Only hours before he had been longing for the quiet joy of his cousin’s companionship. Now the pleasure of her approaching visit dimmed as he thought of how much she would disapprove of his way of life.

  Eight

  No matter what his internal conflicts, when Granville went to The Rose the following Friday, his spirits climbed at the sight of the duke looking so sedate—exactly as a duke should look, as was often said of him. And the warm greeting Granville received from the duchess and her daughters was pleasant indeed.