The Rose Tavern, frequented by Pepys in the previous century and now often host to foreign royalty visiting Cambridge, was a center of gossip and political intrigue. But this evening it had come alive with anticipation as it prepared for the speech William Wilberforce was to make from its balcony. Even in the Beauforts’ private parlor, the bustle of preparations could be heard from the courtyard below.
“Thank goodness, we have seats reserved for us on the dais,” Her Grace said, observing from the window the crowds beginning to gather. “It’s going to be a terrible squeeze. Of course, that will make it more of a triumph for Mr. Wilberforce—and for our cause.”
“What of tomorrow—have you arranged any entertainment for us, Gran?” Georgiana offered him a biscuit to accompany the tea he was drinking. “Mama and Papa are obliged to attend their Abolition Society meeting all day. Charlotte and I shall be frightfully bored if you don’t rescue us.”
“I have procured an invitation to the concert at the Black Bear to be given by its Music Club. They are famous for their performances of Mozart, Haydn, and Purcell.”
“I’m sure that will be quite delightful for mama and papa.” Charlotte spoke up. “But Georgiana and I are thoroughly sated with formal entertainments. I’m longing for more rustic pleasures.”
Granville frowned, at a loss as to what to suggest that would comprise suitable rustic entertainment for ladies. A cockfight or prize mill would hardly do. “Well, perhaps a drive in the country, and, er, a picnic?” He offered after some consideration.
“That would be just the thing. We could drive into the fields and watch the harvest—with your permission, Mama?”
“Certainly, my dear. I’m confident Granville will provide the necessary escort.” She glanced out the window. “But the courtyard is filling rapidly. Perhaps we should make our way downstairs before it becomes impassable.”
The ladies retired to gather their shawls and gloves. The duchess donned a fashionable tartan turban while Georgiana and Charlotte tied on straw bonnets with gauze ribbons.
When they were alone, the duke turned to Granville. “And how is your reading progressing, nephew?”
Granville hesitated. Should he put a good face on it for his uncle? “I’m afraid it is rather, er, uneven, sir.”
The duke laughed and slapped his knee. “Well-chosen word, my boy, if it’s anything like it was in my day. I quite concur with the idea of encouraging young noblemen to attend university to set the tone for the lower orders. But it seems that the policy of conferring degrees without requiring examinations is an open invitation for young men to be fast.”
The entrance of the ladies rescued Granville from the need to comment.
By the time their party was seated on the raised area reserved for members of the Abolition Society, the gathering crowd reached beyond the inn and was filling the street. They were none too early, for only a few minutes later Mr. Wilberforce appeared on the balcony. He was flanked by Charles Simeon, the spiritual founder of the Evangelical party, and Isaac Milner, Wilberforce’s spiritual father and old schoolmaster who had become the intellectual chief of the movement. After preliminaries Wilberforce took the platform.
His small frame clad in black knee breeches and frock coat seemed like the slender but bent cylinder of a candle supporting the flame of his lustrous face with its bright eyes and shining white hair. But when he began to speak, even his striking appearance was overshadowed by the charm of his voice. Years ago it had won for him the title of Nightingale of the House of Commons. The appeal of his smile, the music of his voice, and the intellectual and spiritual force of his words produced an impact that his hearers could never forget.
“Let me declare to you at the beginning that the mainspring of our philanthropic movement is faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ which proclaims liberty to the captive and the opening of the prison doors to them that are bound.”
Granville’s mind turned in upon itself as Wilberforce’s words burned his conscience and forced an application to his own life. The gospel of Jesus Christ proclaims liberty… As yet he had found nothing but bondage in his own strivings. Each time he had determined to turn his back on what his uncle had so rightly termed a fast life, he had found himself a captive in his prison of pleasure. He longed for freedom from guilt. Was he so unworthy that Christ wouldn’t open the doors of his prison?
Wilberforce continued, “The Abolition Society has sometimes been criticized for being as much religious as it is political, but I declare to you that England’s destiny lies safest in the hands of men of clear Christian principle and that submission to Christ is a man’s most important political as well as religious decision.”
Applause resounded from the courtyard led by the Society members. This man’s single-minded efforts had led Parliament to abolish the slave trade seventeen years earlier. He continued to work for the abolition of slavery itself and now sought an interim measure to better the condition of the slaves to keep their hopes alive until abolition could be accomplished.
“And so we must follow our call to right wrongs and establish justice in the name of Jesus Christ wherever our destinies take us. At this hour in history, it is incumbent upon us to fight against the degradation of that odious state of slavery, which not only corrupts everything it touches with its plague spots, but also taints everything within the reach of its very atmosphere…”
Each word drove Granville lower as he considered the degradation of his own personal slavery. It was useless to argue that he was not as dissipated as his friends, that he was drunk less often, that he gambled less deeply, that his association with lightskirts at Newmarket never went past flirtation. Granville knew that a God who said, “Be ye perfect, even as I am perfect,” would never find him acceptable.
“Let our exertions in the cause of the unfortunate slaves be zealous and unremitting,” continued the orator. “Let us act with energy suited to the importance of the interests for which we contend.
“Justice, humanity, and sound policy prescribe our course and will animate our efforts. Stimulated by a consciousness of what we owe to the laws of God, and the rights of the happiness of man, our exertions will be ardent, and our perseverance invincible.”
The speaker’s voice was bold and impassioned with the inspiration that deep feeling alone could breathe into words. Although his health was failing, his power to move an audience was not. “Our ultimate success is sure. Ere long we shall rejoice in the consciousness of having delivered our country from the greatest of her crimes and rescued her character from the deepest stain of dishonor.”
The Society members were on their feet. Those in the courtyard tossed their hats in the air, and all within the reach of Wilberforce’s voice cheered and applauded. Granville, standing with them, wished that success in his own struggle was as sure. But one thing Wilberforce’s words had convinced him of: he could no longer turn his back on the conflict.
He must postpone dealing with his own concerns at least temporarily, however, for the next morning he had promised to take his cousins into the country. Enlisting the help of Freddie and of Meredith Somerville with his tilbury, Granville stowed a hamper filled by Lawrence from the college kitchen in his phaeton, and they called for the young ladies at The Rose.
Servant lads were sweeping the courtyard, clearing away evidence of last night’s meeting, as Georgiana and Charlotte joined their escorts. The sisters looked fresh in simple gowns of printed cotton and natural straw bonnets. Granville presented his friends to the ladies, then frowned at the long time Somerville spent in bowing over Lady Georgiana’s hand. But Freddie spoke for him. “I say, Merry, you planning to dawdle here all morning?”
“No, indeed. I intend to escort this lady to a view of the fairest fields the county offers.” Offering his arm to Georgiana, he led her to his two-wheeled gig. “The finest the carriage shops of Tilbury could produce, but none too fine for milady.” He handed her into the vehicle.
As Granville’s phaeton was larger, t
he remaining three rode in it. They were quickly clear of Cambridge’s narrow streets and into the fresh, bright countryside where they saw golden fields of ripened grain rimmed with green and russet hedgerows interspersed with clumps of autumn-hued trees.
Near the tiny village of Haslingfield, they pulled to a stop beside a “fair field full of folk,” just as might have inspired Langland’s Vision of Piers Plowman in medieval times. The field of wheat, tossed by the breeze, rippled in waves. Except for its color Granville could have thought he was on the quarterdeck on the open sea. The wheat was being harvested by a crew of laborers hired for the season to aid the men of the farm. Working beside them, with skirts tucked into their apron strings, were the laborers’ wives and older children, bundling the freshly scythed stalks and tying them into sheaves. Younger children romped and chased across the stubble, playing hide-and-seek behind the sheaves. Sharp peals of laughter mingled with the songs of birds in the hedgerows beneath the bright blue sky.
When the tinkle of harness bells and the heavy plod of workhorses’ hooves signaled the arrival of the flat wagon, several harvesters left their cutting to walk beside the wain and toss the golden bundles of grain onto its low bed. Then one worker began singing an ancient song of harvest.
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
Wear the lords of wine and oil.
Others around him took up the melody, and soon the whole field rang with song.
By whose tough labors and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown’d with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.
Her face shining with delight, Georgiana clasped her hands and cried, “Oh, they’re far finer than any choir I’ve ever heard! Let’s eat our picnic in that shaded spinney so we can watch their progress.”
Making their way to the small woods, the picnickers worked in rhythm to the harvesters’ song as they spread their rugs on a carpet of leaves and unpacked the hamper. Georgiana exuberantly quoted from Gray’s elegy:
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield…
How jocund did they drive their team afield!…
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor…
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never team’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Merry Somerville’s attentions to Georgiana reminded Granville too much of the ingratiating George Agar-Ellis. And now Georgiana was quoting the favorite poet of Horace Walpole, Ellis’s idol. A cold light filled Granville’s eyes. For one of the few times in his life, he issued a set-down. “I didn’t know you had a turn for the sentimental, Georgie.”
“Oh, but what appealing sentiment she expressed—and so charmingly spoken.” Merry leaned forward and lifted her hand lingeringly to his lips.
“I’ve had quite enough to eat. Would you care for a stroll, Charlotte?” Granville got to his feet and held out his arm.
“I should like it above all things.” Charlotte rose gracefully. “But pray save some of those delectable jam tarts for my return,” she called over her shoulder.
Georgiana gave her sister a frown that clearly said she should do no such thing for anyone who smiled so beguilingly at her Granville.
Granville and Charlotte walked to the edge of the wood where they stood watching the harvest scene. “How very curious! What can they be doing, all gathered in the center of the field around that last little patch of wheat?”
“I’ll tell you,” Freddie said as he and the others came up behind them. “Ain’t lived in Kent all my life without learning a few rustic Banburies. It’s unlucky to cut the last sheaf—final refuge of the Grain Spirit and all that. He’s likely to get a duster up over having someone hack about at his domicile.”
“Surely they don’t believe that. This is the nineteenth century, not the ninth,” Georgiana protested.
Freddie shrugged. “Maggoty idea, but there it is. Probably some cork-brained notion of the Romans. When country folk take something into their heads, it stays there.”
“But surely they aren’t just going to leave the wheat. That would be so wasteful.” Charlotte moved closer to the field for a better view.
As the harvesters encircled the standing wheat, the picnickers also moved into the field to see what was happening. A tall, muscular man walked to the center of the circle, grasped the stalks with one arm and whipped a cord around them to form an uncut sheaf. Then as he stood back, a group of harvesters, gathered in a wide half-circle before the sheaf, threw their sickles at the standing bundle, and it fell to the ground.
The tall man then jumped forward, held the sheaf of wheat above his head, and shouted at the top of his voice, “I have’t! I have’t! I have’t!”
From all around the harvest ring came the cry, “What hav’ee? What hav’ee? What hav’ee?”
“A neck! A neck! A neck!” Cheers and shouting followed, for with the cutting of the final neck of wheat, the harvest on that farm was finished.
The enthusiasm was irresistible. Georgiana led her friends in rushing forward to join the festivities. The neck, whose communal cutting could now bring bad luck to no one, was tossed on top of the load. The women and children dashed off to the woods and hedgerows to gather flowers and tree boughs to decorate the last load of the harvest.
Georgiana and Charlotte ran with them and began making garlands of fall crocuses and Michaelmas daisies. The men followed a bit more slowly, but soon they too had shed their coats, waistcoats, and cravats and in rolled-up shirt sleeves were cutting branches of oak and ash.
His arms full of green branches laden with bright orange berries, Granville strode across the stubble field, oblivious to the fine golden dust dulling the polish of his boots.
“Gran, wait!” With a yellow and purple garland looped around her neck and another held aloft in her arms, Georgiana ran to Granville. “Isn’t this famous? I’ll remember this day all my life.”
Granville’s slow smile came from deep inside him. “Just a few days ago I was longing for a simpler, purer life. It seems I’ve found it—at least for a day.”
Georgiana grinned at him saucily. “So do you apologize for calling Thomas Gray sentimental?”
“Certainly not. Gray is sentimental, but I will allow him perfectly appropriate for the occasion.” He grinned back at her.
“That’s much better. I can’t bear to see you sunk in the dismals. You’ve been quite out of countenance ever since we arrived. I thought perhaps you didn’t like our coming.”
“What a fiddle, Georgie. You’re just trying to get me to tell you how happy I am to see you looking so beautiful.”
“Oh, are you? Am I? How very delightful to hear!” She skipped a few strides ahead. “Still I think something is amiss. She paused to consider him, her head tilted to one side. “Never mind. I shall worm it out of you later.”
Georgiana stood on tiptoe and tossed her garland around the neck of the lead bay horse. He shook his head, making his harness jangle like a bell. The women now produced scarlet ribbons from their apron pockets and tied them to the harness and the frame of the flower-decked wagon as the men, Granville with them, began climbing atop the load. When the men were settled on the wain, the laborers lifted the small horns they had brought for the occasion.
With a triumphant shout and a blast from the horns, the wagon moved ahead. The women ran and danced alongside, singing and laughing. The children, with cups of water from a nearby stream, began showering wagon and revelers alike, showing their appreciation to the rain that first watered the crop, then held back to allow them to harvest it.
Across the field and a short distance down the road, the wagon lumbered to a stop before the barn
that had been cleaned and adorned with garlands of flowers for the harvest supper. “Will ye join our horkey?” The man who had led the cutting of the last sheaf approached Granville with an open smile, offering an invitation to the harvest supper.
“Is it all right? We didn’t do any work to earn our supper.”
“Oh, aye. I’m the lord of the harvest, and what I say goes. I bid ye come and eat.”
While Granville and Merry went back to the woods to bring their carriages around, Freddie joined Georgiana and Charlotte and some of the younger men in carrying victuals from the laden wagons sent down from the squire’s house. Crisp brown sides of roast beef and mutton, trenchers of sausages and buns, steaming platters of green, gold, and orange vegetables, and an endless number of plum puddings and apple pies covered the long tables inside the barn.
Near the door of the barn, several of the women were gathered around the neck of wheat, fashioning it into the shape of a doll with hair and hands made of wheat ears.
“’Ere, now, is the frock we used last year.” A woman produced a slightly tattered white dress that would have fit a young girl. The doll was stuffed inside the garment, and other women decorated its hair and wrists with colored ribbons.
As the first red streaks of sunset marked the sky, the completed kern-baby, symbol of the wheat spirit and guarantor of good harvests to come, was hoisted on a pole by the tallest and strongest men of the party. All followed it into the barn where the feasting officially began.
As Granville worked his way through a plate heaped as high as that of the hardest-working laborer, washing it down with mugs of cider, his mind took a serious turn, calling to mind Jesus’ Parable of the Harvest: Some had worked all day; some had worked half a day, and some had worked for only one hour before sundown. Yet all received equal wages from the Master, the same Master who later, as the Lord of the Harvest, invited His friends to “come and dine.”
Granville looked at his companions—Georgiana, Charlotte, Freddie, and Somerville. None of them had worked for even an hour before sunset, and yet they had been graciously invited to come and dine. Perhaps not all rewards had to be earned…
Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Page 8
