The next morning being Sunday, the village bell ringers put to full use the ring of eight bells in the Shoreham parish church of St. Peter and St. Paul. And Catherine entered with the other villagers through the porch, which had been built in the fifteenth century from the root of a huge upended oak, and on through the stone doorway. She took her seat on the second pew where she had worshiped since she was three years old.
As she sang the familiar hymns, listened to the lessons, and knelt for prayers with these people she had grown up among, the conflicts and struggles of the past weeks seemed to slip further and further away. It seemed impossible that there could be such disturbances in God’s world. The collect for that fifth Sunday after Easter seemed to hold the key to all problems:
“O Lord, from whom all good things do come; Grant to us thy humble servants, that by Thy holy inspiration, we may think those things that be good, and by Thy merciful guiding may perform the same; through our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.”
While her father preached, Catherine let her eyes wander over the dear church. She had always loved the dark, wood-vaulted ceiling. One of her earliest memories was of peeking up at it when her eyes should have been closed in prayer and counting the golden stars embedded in the wood. One time Ned caught her at her game and reprimanded her later—the stars weren’t there to be counted, they were to serve as reminders of the infinity of God, and counting them would spoil everything.
She disagreed, however, and one warm Saturday afternoon when the church was empty, she slipped into its lovely, cool stone interior, lay right down on the flagged floor, and began counting. But she kept getting confused and having to start all over again. In the end, she fell asleep and received a dreadful scolding for not helping Elizabeth peel the potatoes for supper.
Later that afternoon she recounted the memory to Phillip. “I am surprised to hear of the scolding. It seems to me that no one in your family ever raises a voice to another.”
She smiled. “Well, perhaps we only do so in a very restrained way. And then we always say we are sorry as soon as the moment has passed.”
They crossed the vicarage garden back to the church. Catherine had volunteered to take the children’s service for her father, if Phillip would help her, which he readily agreed to do. She turned to him now against the backdrop of the rambling vicarage and its riotous garden, with their talk of her happy, loving family hanging in the air. She saw him standing there, tall and thin in his dark suit, and thought how austere his life had been.
When she looked at him a short time later as he explained the story of the Good Samaritan to the village children, she saw his face aglow as it was only when he preached, and a great wave of feeling washed over her; it was a feeling she couldn’t identify, but that she wanted to clasp to her, in spite of the ache it brought with it.
It was to be a day of strange feelings for Catherine. When her family gathered around the parlor fireplace after Evensong, Phillip was the last to enter. Again he paused just outside the doorway, and she saw him alone, as she was accustomed to thinking of him. Then he entered and sat down and was suddenly so much a part of the family that when young Thomas climbed on his lap and Philothea sat so close as to be leaning on him, he became almost part of the furniture. It was as if in this rural vicarage Phillip Ferrar had dropped into place.
When they had their fill of chatting to one another and eating cold meats, the family slowly straggled off to bed. Vincent and Charity were the last to leave them. “Thank you for giving us that fine sermon at Evensong. You can come preach for me anytime,” Vincent said to Phillip, then kissed his daughter good-night.
Charity also kissed Catherine. “We shall begin our parish visits at nine o’clock in the morning. Old Mrs. Claygate is very poorly, and the Ightham children weren’t at the children’s service today, and—oh, well, there are so many. My dear, it will be so good to have you visiting with me.”
And then Phillip and Catherine had the fireside all to themselves and for the moment it seemed as if this parish where they were preaching, teaching, and visiting the sick and needy, was their own, as Midhurst must have been for Phillip. Catherine poured out a final cup of tea for her companion who sat with his feet up on the hob, and the very everydayness of it made her feel as if she were a little girl playing house. But she longed for it to be more than playacting.
It seemed to Catherine that this return to her home was to be one of constant revelations and understandings as she accompanied her mother on their round of visits the next morning. She watched as Charity dealt with the needs of the people of the parish, and gradually, it seemed that she was watching a new person—or perhaps, for the first time—a real person in the place of the generalized, comfortable form of “mother.” She had always seen her mother as an extension of her father, who found her being in the center of her many children as she directed the household to revolve around Vincent. Father’s meals were always on time, composed of his favorite foods, prepared the way he liked them; Father’s study hours were always to be undisturbed by children, parishioners, or other clergymen; Father’s work must receive her help, visiting the sick, distributing Charity from the poor box, arranging flowers on the altar; and Father’s children must always be orderly, clean, well-behaved, respectful. Not that Vincent Perronet was a demanding tyrant—a kindlier, softer-spoken soul couldn’t be imagined. But this was the natural order of things.
It had given Catherine’s childhood a focus, a pattern, a security. Father was the center of the household and the parish, just as John Wesley was the center of the Methodist Society, the King was the center of England, and God was the center of the universe. But now Catherine realized how important a focus her mother was for her own sake—the love and warmth and comfort she shared unstintingly with her tumble of children and the three hundred souls in their parish.
Charity Perronet was far more than an extension of her husband; she was a person who chose to be a helpmeet and to fulfill Christ’s call to servanthood. And for the first time in her life, Catherine truly saw her mother—saw her with the insight which was like a birth when the infant for the first time sees the world outside the womb. And with it came a new love and appreciation for her mother.
But most important of all, she felt a desire to carry on in her mother’s tradition of love and service. She would be the person God created her to be, serving out of love—if only God would show her how and where. “O God,” she prayed, “surely Thou wouldst not have given me this desire if Thou didst not have a place for me to use it.”
The final stop for mother and daughter was in the center of the village where the Misses Simpson plied their expert needles in the little Tudor shop that was also their home. With her mother’s help and the fluttery attendance of the elder Miss Simpson, Catherine looked through the pattern cards and fabrics and chose an open gown to be made from dimity of simple texture but lively pattern, with little bouquets of scattered flowers. The flowers, stomacher, and petticoat reflected Catherine’s love of nature as she selected a clear blue like the sky and the bluebells that grew in the woods around Shoreham in the spring.
“You have chosen well, my Dear,” Charity told her. “Buying good fabric is never extravagant, because it lasts so much longer. Sometimes I buy French fabric, but only from established shops—one must be careful not to support the runners by buying smuggled products. This lace will make a lovely trimming for the neckline and sleeve flounces.”
Catherine hesitated. The lace her mother held was lovely, but many Society members eschewed such marks of worldliness. She had never considered removing it from the dresses she already owned, but wondered about the propriety of ordering it on a new gown.
“There can be nothing displeasing to God in a bit of lace, my dear. Even your father’s best surplice has a trim of lace on it.” Charity handed the lace to the dressmaker at Catherine’s nod. “And now, we must hurry home for tea. I told Betsy to make a special treat.”
But even the veiled hint from her mothe
r and the broad smiles from her siblings did nothing to prod Catherine’s suspicions that anything out of the ordinary was afoot—not until she had been served a thick slice of seed cake with a dish of sweet tea and Philothea burst out between giggles, “She’s forgotten, hasn’t she? Cath, truly do you not know what day this is?”
Catherine looked puzzled. “No, I’ve given it no thought. I lost all account of the days on our travels. It must be May… oh, is it truly the twelfth of May? Is it my birthday?”
And then she was obliged to set her tea dish aside very quickly before she was engulfed in congratulatory hugs and birthday kisses from her family.
“And you too, Phillip, you must wish Cath happiness,” Philly led their guest forward.
“Felicitations, Catherine.”
“Oh, Fah! It won’t do if you don’t kiss her. Don’t be so shy, Phillip.” Philothea gave him a sisterly shove that almost landed his lanky form in Catherine’s lap.
He bent over gravely, picked up her hand, and brushed it with his lips. “Many happy returns.” And suddenly, Catherine felt they would be.
Philothea applauded the performance of the guest she had adopted so wholeheartedly as her personal property. “Well done! And when is your birthday, Phillip?”
He withdrew to the back of the company. “I fear I don’t have any idea. I have never given the subject any thought.”
Catherine chilled with fear for his feelings. She knew how sensitive he was about his foundling status. But she could think of nothing to distract her little sister as Philly insisted.
“Oh, but you must know how old you are?”
“Yes, I know that, I have the good fortune to have accomplished thirty years.”
“How odd not to know your birthday.” Philothea frowned at the problem. “Perhaps you could celebrate your saint’s day. May first is Saint Philip and Saint James’ Day—pity Philip didn’t get one of his own, the other apostles did. I suppose it was because he was so quiet. If he had talked more he would have more stories in the Bible and then they would have given him his own day.”
She thought for a moment. “But don’t feel bad, I’m sure he was really a very important Apostle. The collect says, ‘following the steps of Thy holy Apostles, Saint Philip and Saint James, we may steadfastly walk in the way that leadeth to eternal life.’ Pity it’s just past. Will you mind dreadfully waiting a whole year for your birthday?"
Phillip started to say that he wouldn’t mind in the least, but Damaris joined in with another suggestion. “Perhaps you could celebrate your spiritual birthday.”
Philly thought that a splendid idea. “Oh, yes. ‘Ye must be born again.’ Father preached on that just two Sundays ago, did you not, Father? That would be a birthday. Do you remember when it was, Phillip?”
“Yes, it was the second Sunday in Trinity. I remember because Trinity term had just begun when I had the opportunity of calling on Mister William Law.”
Catherine was happy to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable subject of birthdays. “How fortunate you were to be able to counsel with a man who has influenced so many.”
“Yes, I was perhaps the one man in all Cambridge who prayed in a formal way every day; but Law made me see that giving good words with the mouth, while the heart is far from God, can serve no beneficial purpose.”
“And you found assurance of salvation then?” Vincent asked.
“Truly. As soon as I saw that my hope and trust must be fixed solely in my Creator and Redeemer. Law showed me that those systems of divinity which represent an outward atonement in order to make God reconcilable to His creatures, in the same manner that sacrifices were anciently thought to appease the deity—such forms as I had always worshiped in—are totally erroneous.
“When I saw that all was in Christ and His atonement, I knew a great peace.”
“Eight Sundays after Easter,” announced Philothea who had been looking up Trinity Sunday in the Table of Lessons in the Prayer Book. “So the second Sunday in Trinity is nine weeks after Easter, which will be—” she paused to count on her fingers, “the second Sunday in June. You must remember to celebrate.”
He nodded solemnly at the child’s earnest instruction.
“Might I have another piece of cake, Mother?” John held out an empty plate.
“Here, have mine.” Phillip’s response was so natural, the movement with which he placed the cake on the younger boy’s plate so rapid, that it was a moment before Catherine realized what had happened. Back in a group of youngsters, Phillip had reacted as he had at the orphanage to the needs of another. She wondered how often his infinite unselfishness had led him to give his food to another?
“And now, in honor of this day, dear Sister,” Edward bowed to Catherine, “I have the pleasure of announcing that I have near-to completed my new hymn.” He paused. “At least, I’ve made progress worthy of showing to another.”
“O Ned, how splendid! Is it the one you were working on during our trip?”
“Yes, I have seldom had a composition cost me so much effort, but I flatter myself that I have captured some of the stateliness I sought.” He indicated the harpsichord. “Will you, Catherine? I believe the key of G would suit it best."
She took her accustomed place at the instrument, and as soon as her fingers struck the first few chords of the tune he chose to accompany the words his struggles had produced, she felt a thrill at the strength of her brother’s composition. He sang it clear through for them,
All Hail the Power of Jesus’ name!
Let angels prostrate fall.
Bring forth the royal diadem
And crown Him Lord of All!
Here the singer-poet paused. “I fear I am still struggling with the middle verses. I feel there should be at least two more in here, but I am happy with my conclusion.” Catherine picked up the melody again and Edward sang:
Oh, that with yonder sacred throng
We at His feet may fall.
We’ll join the everlasting song,
And crown Him Lord of all!
“O Ned,” Catherine was the first to respond. “It’s wonderful! so worshipful and majestic! I can feel the greatness of God. It makes me want to shout Glory to Him.”
“Catherine, I couldn’t imagine you so demonstrative,” Edward laughed.
“Well, my spirit shouts, even if I don’t,” she amended.
Charity dabbed at her eyes with linen handkerchief, but her words to her son were interrupted by a knock at the door.
Vincent moved to answer it before any of the servants could respond. “Why, Charl, what an unexpected pleasure!”
He stepped back to admit his newly arrived son, but the pleasure that should have accompanied such a visit was quenched by the messenger’s words. “Ned, I am sent for you. Your wife is dangerously ill.”
Thirteen
THEY SET OUT AT FIRST LIGHT and by continually pressing their horses and themselves, the riders were able to accomplish the eighteen miles from Shoreham to Greenwich in just five hours. Edward rode always at the front, urging his horse and his companions to greater speed, showing by the sharpness of his voice how near to distraction he was. At Kidbrooke, a mile from Greenwich, he kicked his horse and galloped ahead.
“Go with him, Charl,” Catherine told her brother. “I shall be there soon enough. He may need your support.”
When she and Phillip arrived half an hour later, the stableboy was still cooling the two newly arrived horses, indicating that the brothers had galloped most of the final distance. Joseph helped Catherine dismount, but Phillip stayed in the saddle. “Shall I see you in, or would it be best I not intrude?”
“Oh please come in.” The thought of Phillip’s merely riding off was suddenly more she than she could bear. Catherine looked toward the doctor’s black carriage waiting by the house. “I don’t know what we may find inside. I should be grateful for your support.”
And having Phillip beside her did make walking into the unknown easier. The house was
ominously quiet. Catherine paused at the foot of the stair.
“Ned is upstairs.” Charl’s voice from the parlor startled her.
“Is… is she…?”
“Alive. But very weak. She lost much blood.”
“The baby?”
Charl shook his head sadly, and Catherine nodded in reply; she had feared it would be so.
“Thank God Durial’s alive. I dreaded the worst.” She turned to Phillip. “I must go up to her.”
He nodded.
Audrey, hovering outside her mistress’ door in case she should be wanted, ushered Catherine into the dimly lit room, where the red-bearded physician was thoroughly in charge. He addressed Durial, emphasizing each word with a wagging finger. “Ye’ve had a verra narrow escape, and ye’ll not stir from that bed for a fortnight. Do I make myself clear, lass? I shall instruct your cook in making a restorative elixir from the juice of red meat, and ye’ll take a full bowl of it every morning.”
“Is he just now come?” Catherine whispered to her sister Elizabeth.
“No, no. Doctor Macintyre sat with her all night, then came back this afternoon. We despaired of losing her.”
“What happened?”
“She fell. It was the spring cleaning and she would take a hand in turning out the linen closets.” Elizabeth moved to the door to see the doctor out, leaving Ned and Catherine alone with the patient.
“Durial, dear, we are so sorry.” Catherine moved closer to the bed and received a weak smile from her sister-in-law.
Even in the dim room, Durial’s pallor was frightful she was whiter than her linen sheets, and seemed shrunken into her pillows. “My husband, I am so sorry. If only I hadn’t been so headstrong and houseproud. Now I’ll never have aught to give you but a clean house.”
Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 10
