The storm had already begun when the young curate, Thomas Edward Braddock,** noticed Frederica sitting silently in the pew just under the stained glass window.
“Miss Vernon? What a pleasure to see you here.”
The affable young curate, small of stature but neither imperious nor argumentative, approached her.
“Have you any need of assistance?”
“Yes, thank you… There was a matter regarding which I wanted to ask: How, in accord with Christian teaching, should the Fourth Commandment be honoured?”
“The Fourth Commandment? Yes—‘Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.’”
“No,” Frederica said, “I meant the commandment ‘Honour thy father and mother…’”
“Oh, the Fifth Commandment! My favourite!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “It’s the Church of Rome that has it as the Fourth—yes, the Fifth Commandment: ‘Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.’ Beautiful, profound—I believe one should apply this sentiment of Gratitude and Loyalty to every aspect of our lives. We are not born into a savage wilderness but into a beautiful mansion of the Lord that the Lord and those who have gone before us have built. We must avoid neglecting this mansion but rather glorify and preserve it—as we should all of the Lord’s Creation. The superb Baumgarten has outlined the aesthetic trinity as ‘Truth,’ ‘Beauty,’ and ‘Good.’ ‘Truth’ is the perfect perceived by reason; ‘Beauty,’ by the senses; and the ‘Good’ by moral will.”
Frederica rather lost track of time speaking with the curate, whose erudition and enthusiasm she found comforting. Here was a young man who might have been a truly sympathetic companion over a long life. Could Frederica have imagined becoming Mrs. Thomas Edward Braddock? In fact she did not consider it, or not consider it much; her heart and head were filled with thoughts of another…
Emerging from the wooded path on her walk back to Churchill she encountered Reginald. He had a look of surprise, as if he had entirely forgotten her existence, which he nearly had.
“From where do you come?” he asked.
“Church.”
“Why were you in church?”
“Well… it is our religion.”
Reginald smiled. “Yes, of course, but this time of day—neither morning prayer nor vespers?”
Seeking to avoid a fuller, or truer, explanation Frederica mentioned the usual pretext, that of weather.
“The sky had clouded over,” she said. “I was sure there would be a downpour.”
“There was,” Reginald replied and shook water from his cloak.
Frederica now noticed that he was sopping wet, that he must have been caught in the storm. He dripped water from hat and coat.
“Oh, you are quite drenched: You must put on dry clothes!”
Frederica, approaching as if to protect him from the wet, lightly touched his coat, then jerked her hand back as if it had been burning hot rather than damp.
“Excuse me!” she said, embarrassed and discomposed, immediately starting off to the house ahead of him. Reginald DeCourcy was left to ponder just what had happened before continuing in her wake.
References have been made to our Christian faith, a subject many are loath to broach: The faiths of others, in their particulars, are often disconcerting if not dismaying to discover; at other times astoundingly tedious. A great felicity of properly-ordered divine worship is the occasion it provides for a numerous congregation to recite the same prayers, pronounce the same liturgy, sing the same hymns, declare the same credo—to make a beautiful picture of harmony out of the rank odour of their individual beliefs, often heretical or absurd.
The main paths to faith are two,* with the great divide between those whose faith represents a continuum of practice and belief, with no identifiable experience of conversion or spiritual rebirth, and those who have had such an experience. In recent years it has been thought that Science poses a challenge to Christian belief that is unprecedented and, perhaps, unanswerable. In fact, though, laxity and scepticism were far graver threats to the church in the last century, not even considering the outpouring of nauseating Deist mumbo-jumbo in that period. In earlier times Roman and barbarian swords were greater challenges still. Nevertheless, confronted with Science’s challenges to our dogma, some Christian thinkers have advanced—mistakenly, I believe—what they consider proofs of the truth of Christian teaching. In this I would say that they are “barking up the wrong tree.”** Faith, by its very definition, means going beyond evidence.
The “Stride of Faith”
For those whose faith is not a continuum from their earliest, pre-rational years it is argued that there must be a “Leap of Faith.” This expression, originally the “Leap to Faith,” now takes the prior form, such deterioration in the precision of our language being now too common to require comment. In either form this image of a “leap” is disturbing. It suggests danger: leaping from one cliff to another, with an abyss below. Searching for and finding faith should not be so compared: One is striding towards a heavenly destination, not diving into or near an abyss. This word itself—“abyss”—is it not weird? Does it not itself suggest evil, by the very sequence of letters? Has a word ever been odder? (Here I refer to words of modest length; among lengthy words certainly strange ones can be found: Mississippi. Or: Antidisunitarianism.)
The great Calvin has taught us* that such dramatic images, terrifying “leaps,” fraught “rebirths,” evidence the vanity of Man rather than the sovereign power of God. We may, we should, we must regenerate; but, of our own volition, we do not “leap” anywhere. We should be able to become faithful Christians without any jumping, or terrifying leaps, involved at all. Rather than “Leap of Faith”—with the vanity and self-dramatizing that that suggests—what is needed is a long, hopeful stride, the so-called “Stride of Faith.” Certainly a great distance is to be covered, but it should not involve the risk of a terrifying fall into a rocky abyss. With the Stride of Faith our brothers of the “continuum of faith” also stride with us; with the Stride of Faith we seek to regenerate our selves (our souls) while moving forward towards a destiny which only the Almighty will decide. This idea of a Stride of Faith has greatly reassured me and I hope it might do the same for the reader.
A Return to Parklands
Not long after Lady Susan departed Churchill the Vernons also left, journeying with their children and Frederica to visit the elder DeCourcys in Kent. Arriving at Parklands Catherine left the children with their grandfather to find her mother who was just then descending the stairs.
“Oh, Mother!” Catherine embraced her, almost in tears.
“How good to see you—what joy your letter gave us!”
“I wrote too hastily—”
“What?”
“I couldn’t imagine that every expectation I had would be so quickly dashed.”
“You frighten me!”
“You are right to be frightened. I despair of ever gaining the advantage of that woman—”
“Lady Susan?”
“Her powers are diabolical—”
“Diabolical?!”
“Yes. Just after I wrote I was astonished to see Reginald come from her rooms—the quarrel between them made up! One point only was gained: Sir James Martin’s dismissal. Reginald took me aside to give an explanation only Lady Susan could get a man to believe, then Lady Susan did the same. Her assurance, her deceit—my heart sickened. As soon as I returned to the parlour, Sir James’ carriage was at the door and he, merry as ever, took his leave. So easily does her Ladyship encourage or dismiss a Lover!”
“But sweet Frederica?” Lady DeCourcy asked. “What of her?”
“Our only consolation! I hope you will love her as much as we do…”
“But when might we know her?”
Catherine turned back to the hall. “Frederica, come—my mother is anxious to meet you.”
Frederica, separating herself from her cousins and their grandfather,
shortly appeared.
“Mother, I would like to introduce our niece, Frederica. Frederica, let me present my mother, Lady DeCourcy.”
“My dear child,” the older women said, “I am so pleased to know you. We had such high regard for your late father—and have heard altogether so much in your favour.”
“Thank you, Lady DeCourcy—I also have long wanted to meet you and know Parklands about which my cousins often speak.”
Their young voices were soon calling Frederica back, joined by Sir Reginald’s.
“You may go to them, my dear. We will talk more later; we have a great deal to discuss.”
“Thank you, Lady DeCourcy!”
“She is lovely,” Lady DeCourcy pronounced after Frederica left.
“The poor girl,” Catherine said. “Her one chance to break free… Who knows what punishment her mother will now impose? And the torment Frederica must feel seeing Reginald back under her mother’s rule.”
“Reginald cannot be blind to such a lovely girl.”
“He has been rendered blind: Reginald is more securely Lady Susan’s than ever.”
“Please don’t tell your father,” she told Catherine. “I fear for his constitution.”
The older man, whose hearing might not have been as bad as everyone assumed, appeared from around the corner.
“Tell me what?”
Oppressive tyrants of the domestic sphere such as the female DeCourcys will always, it seems, portray themselves and their favourites as the “harmed” rather than the “harming.” But, we must note, it is not Lady Susan who dedicated herself to maligning others.
Far too many are those who take at face value any slur or accusation, without considering the truth and honesty of the source. In the case of the DeCourcys and their spinster amanuensis, the truthfulness was nil, as the following exercise in character-assassination shows. The malicious authoress presents an absurdity, Lady Susan riding in a carriage (the one my uncle had provided) to Edward Street where she has Alicia Johnson rushing down the front steps to intercept her:
“Susan! Stop!”
“What is it, you funny creature?”
“The worst thing imaginable—Mr. Johnson’s been cured!”
“How is that possible?”
“It’s this terrible gout of his: No sooner had he heard you were in London than he had a cure. It was the same when I wanted to visit the Hamiltons—then, when I had a fancy for Bath,* nothing could induce him to have a symptom.”
“I must intercept Manwaring before he arrives.”
“You summoned him here? How very bold, my dear!”
“Could you do me the greatest favour?” Susan asked. “Go to Seymour Street and receive Reginald there. I dare not risk his and Manwaring’s meeting; keep him with you all evening if you can. Make up anything; I allow you to flirt with him as much as you like—you’ll not find it hard.”
“What an intriguing plan—”
“But don’t forget my true interest: Convincing Reginald he can’t remain in London, for the usual reasons—propriety, his family, and so forth.”
She next portrays the friends together the day after; the interview between Reginald DeCourcy and Mrs. Johnson has already taken place—the location, the well-appointed parlour of Lady Susan’s rooms at Upper Seymour Street.
“At first he was very gloomy,” Alicia said. “He couldn’t understand why you hadn’t come, plying me with questions, some rather awkward. But I spoke ceaselessly of your devotion and admiration—”
“Good.”
“And very quickly he was in good humour. My dear, I see what you mean: How flattery alters a man’s spirits. It’s delightful. I blush to think of the superlatives I hurled at his head—but which he accepted without demur—”
“When it comes to flattery, don’t hold back,” Lady Susan commented (“her experience extensive,” the spinster wrote). “Men are such gluttons for praise, it’s never enough. Much better a Manwaring, sufficiently high in his own regard not to need bolstering from others!”
“How was the charming man?”
Susan smiled.
“I will not deny the real pleasure seeing him afforded me, nor how strongly I felt the contrast between his manners and Reginald’s. For an hour or two I was even staggered in my resolution to marry Reginald.”
A look of worry passed over Alicia’s countenance; Lady Susan explained herself:
“I quite despise that doubting, suspicious cast of mind, where one is always being called on to justify oneself. I immensely prefer the open-hearted, open-handed manner of a Manwaring—even if only his wife’s fortune allows it.”
“Is Manwaring aware of your intentions?”
“Heavens no! It’s essential he not be! I represented Reginald as no more than a trivial flirtation. In fact, we had a good laugh about it. Manwaring was tolerably appeased—oh, to have a few more months with the divine man before submitting to prudence…”
“You worry me, my dear.”
“I worry me. Though I detest imprudence, and sincere emotions of all kinds, where Manwaring is concerned…”
I will shortly expose the falsity of this account.
Reginald arrived by carriage not long after. Lady Susan accompanied him to the drawing room.
“I am sorry I could not be here to greet you but did I not provide a charming substitute?”
Reginald said nothing, as if in a kind of pout.
“How strange: You remain silent but Mrs. Johnson could not stop singing your praises.”
“Excuse me?”
“I fear Alicia has quite fallen in love with you; it’s given me quite a scare.”
“You’re joking.”
“But you did like her?”
“Of course—”
“I so admire Alicia: Her husband, Mr. Johnson, is older and disagreeable, but a word of complaint never drops from Alicia’s lips. Exemplary. Only by one’s friends can one truly be known; that Alicia is mine will, I hope, help you think better of me.”
“I already think well of you.”
“You were not ‘plagued by doubt’?”
“Some things disconcerted me: That you were not here, that—”
“Please, Reginald, don’t be severe—I can’t support reproaches…”
“But—”
“No, I entreat you, I can’t support them. My absence was to arrange a matter so that we might be together. I’m forbidden to say more; please don’t reproach me.”
“Have you considered what I asked?”
“I have, and since have had time for reflection: I believe our affairs require a delicacy and caution which, in our candid enthusiasm, we have perhaps insufficiently heeded—”
“What do you mean?”
“I fear our feelings have hurried us to a degree which ill accords with the views of the world. In becoming engaged we were… hasty, unguarded.”
“Unguarded?”
“So many friends continue opposed. It’s understandable that your family would prefer you marry a woman of fortune: Where possessions are extensive the wish to increase them still further is, if not entirely reasonable, too common to excite surprise. The indelicacy of an early remarriage might also subject me to the censure of those you hold dear.”
“I’m sure, in time—”
“Perhaps, but with feelings as poignant as ours…” Lady Susan hesitated.
“You no longer wish to marry?” Reginald reacted as if stung.
“No, no, no. All I’m saying—or hesitantly suggesting—is that we postpone an open understanding until the opinion of the world is in more accord with our own inclinations.”
“When might that be?”
Susan considered the question a few moments before replying.
“Let’s allow the feelings of our friends to be our guide.”
“That could mean never!”
Reginald stood as if about to resume his pacing.
“No. Perhaps… months,” Lady Susan replied. “I confess delay is
against my every inclination.”
“Then let’s—”
“No, I can’t be responsible for dividing your family.”
“I thought we had decided,” Reginald said, sitting down again but closer. Reginald might here seem like a weak and pouting fellow but I venture that no man, even Manwaring, would look admirable in such circumstances.
“I know; the prospect of such delay seems insupportable, especially if we were both in London. With separations, only those that are also geographical can be reasonably tolerated.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Reginald: Staying in London would be the death of our reputations. We must not meet. And not to meet, we must not be near. Cruel as this may appear, the necessity of it will be evident to you.”
“Where will you go?”
“It is necessary that I remain in London—there are arrangements that I must make so that we can be together. On the contrary I know your family craves your company—especially that elderly gentleman to whom you owe so much. I would never want to be the cause of an éloignement* between you and your father, who—forgive me—might not have long left to him.”
Reginald seemed surprised: “There is no reason for worry that I know of—Father is rather in his prime.”
“Oh, thank Heavens!” Susan said. “So, he’s not in decline?”
“He has the usual aches and pains but is overall, I believe, in good health. In any case he would not want any concern on that account—which he would consider so much rubbish.”
“Ah, mortality! Our mortality and that of others—but particularly our own—this is the hardest and most implacable hand life deals us. I long to meet the dear gentleman. Of course it’s natural he would ignore or minimize the cold, sad end that awaits us.”
“Not at all. Father’s a Christian, for whom the prospect of the end is neither sad nor cold.”
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