Anna Nelson sat at the little
piano, playing a soft, slow tune that filled the corner of the grand room. The
voices of the men, her father and Lieutenant Elijah Green, floated out from the
drawing room, where they had retreated to smoke their pipes and talk of war. Though
she was interested in the conversation, she knew that a woman’s presence would
be seen as an intrusion, and so she had settled at the piano bench to await the
return of Oliver, the butler.
She smiled as her fingers glided
nimbly over the ivory keys, blending the crisp sounds together in a harmony of
peace. It was a tune she knew well—one that had been in her heart for years,
and it came out now with beauty and power that surprised her. She closed her
eyes, her mind flooding with images of green meadows, of springtime, and of two
children playing happily by the silvery waves of the little pond.
Mary, the young housemaid, bustled
through the room with a delicate silver tray on which were set a pot of tea and
two cups. Anna watched her disappear into the drawing room, then smiled upon
her return.
“Would you like anything, my lady?”
she asked, her hands clasped humbly in front of her.
“No thank you, Mary.”
She nodded, and began to move back
toward the kitchens.
“Actually,” Anna began, and the
young maid turned on her heel. “Maybe you could just sit with me for a minute
or two.” She slid over on the bench and patted the seat beside her.
Mary nodded and took the seat, letting
her fingers rest lightly on the ivories.
“Play me something, Mary.”
The servant blushed and shook her
head. “I’m not very good, Miss Anna.”
“Neither am I,” she replied
graciously.
“But I heard you playing just a
minute ago, Miss. It was beautiful.”
“Only because I knew the song so
well. Oftentimes I’m terribly clumsy at the pianoforte.”
They sat in silence for a long
moment, listening to the drone of the men’s voices coming from the drawing
room. Lieutenant Green was relating one of his many heroic stories from his
months in the King’s Navy, and his voice rose and fell with the authority and
thunder of the drama. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to dance with the
rhythm of his words, gaining power and brightness in an authoritative climax
that was interrupted before its conclusion by the nasal whine of Lord Nelson’s
voice.
Anna smiled, and Mary looked at her
for a few moments.
“Do you think he’ll come tomorrow?”
the maid asked.
Even though she didn’t say his
name, Anna knew of whom she spoke. “I don’t know, Mary. I hope so. But…well,
all I’ve gotten from him lately is a sense of our distance from one another.”
Mary closed her eyes for a few
moments and allowed her hands to bring out a quick, lively melody from the keys
of the piano. It wasn’t perfect in timing, but the spirit was there, and it
brought a smile to Anna’s lips.
“That was a song my mother used to
sing as we did the washing down at the river,” the maid said softly.
The two young women sat there, side
by side at the piano for a few minutes in silence, their eyes still fixed on
the fire. There was a painting, grand in scale, which hung on the wall above
the warming blaze—the portrait of a naval commander standing boldly, gazing out
into the distance from his place on the bridge of his ship. And the
sharp-featured, noble face beneath the Admiral’s hat was one that Anna knew
well. And one she wished that she could see again.
The sound of clipped, measured
footsteps broke them from their reverie, and they glanced up to see Oliver
standing in the draperied doorway, his face grave, as always. He bowed, then
righted himself to his ramrod-straight posture.
“Did you speak with him, Oliver?”
Anna asked, her eyes wide with anticipation and hope.
“I did, yes,” he replied slowly. “He
sends his apologies for not responding to your first invitation, and he wishes
to tell you that he is planning to attend, along with his parents and some
friends.”
“Ruben O’Connell, no doubt,” she
grinned.
“Yes, and a young woman who has, I
believe, not yet made your acquaintance.”
“Did you get her name?” Anna asked.
“Patience Carmichael .
She appeared to accept Master McNeill’s extension of your invitation
hesitantly, and only on the condition that it would stand well with you. I
assured her that your hospitality is open to all.”
“Of course you’re right, Oliver. Thank
you.”
The butler paused for a moment,
then decided that further explanation was warranted. “I think she may be
working as an assistant to Dr. Simons, because he was also at the McNeill
residence when I arrived.”
“Yes, I suppose,” said Anna. “Carmichael . I wonder if she might be the daughter of the
Methodist minister who recently arrived in town.”
“A distinct possibility, my lady.”
“Well, of course she’s welcome to
come. Thank you, Oliver. That will be all.”
“Very good,” he said, bowed, and
made his way into the drawing room, where he was immediately called upon by
Lord Nelson to give his interpretation of the political events on the Continent.
Anna drew a deep breath and then released
it. “Well, he’s coming,” she smiled. “That’s good. I’m looking forward to
seeing him.”
“But things are not as you had
hoped?” Mary pressed.
“No, I suppose not. Well, I don’t know.
I’m not sure what I expect from him. I just don’t understand why things can’t
be the same as when he left.”
“When he left,” she replied softly,
“your uncle was not yet the man who saved all of England.”
Mary rose, nodded respectfully, and
made her way out of the room. Anna’s eyes were drawn again to the painting
hanging above the mantle. Uncle Horatio to her. To the rest of the world, Admiral
Lord Horatio Nelson, the hero and martyr of Trafalgar. In the background, the
strong baritone of Lieutenant Elijah Green was barking out his critique of the
butler’s analysis. Anna listened for a few moments with a furrowed brow,
smiled, then rose and made her way back to her own chamber.
~ ~ ~
The next day dawned bright and
clear, and despite the pressure of his confusing friendship with Anna and the
pounding ache in his head, Victor found that he was in relatively good spirits.
Ruben had spent the night at their house, and as the first light of day dawned,
he departed to go work in the field with his father and brothers. Victor took
his breakfast with his parents, and they were delighted when, on checking Julius,
they found him awake.
He smiled up at Victor slowly. “Good
morning, Master Victor,” he rasped. “It’s a fine day for gardening.”
“Of which you’ll do none, Julius!”
he laughed. “You must lie there for awhile, and not try to move. Doctor Simons
will be along shortly to check on you.”
Victor took a few moments to check
the servants bandaged, clicking his tongue in silent thought. Julius lay there
in calm repose, watching the young man work over him with an expression of
quiet pleasure on his face.
“You used to make me lie here, just
like this, when you were a boy.”
Victor grinned. “Oh? I don’t
remember. Why did I do that?”
“You were playing doctor,” the old
servant chuckled. “And look, you still are!”
Victor gave his arm an affectionate
squeeze. “Thanks for letting me be your doctor one more time, my friend. Well, it
all looks good to me, Julius. But we’re certainly glad you’re with us—we thought
you might be off to meet your Master last night.”
“And here I am, still stuck with my
old master instead.”
“Promise me you won’t try to get up
and do any gardening, at least not until Dr. Simons has checked in on you.”
Julius sighed. “As you wish. But
you must promise me that you’ll look in on my garden. There are a few more rows
of carrots to be planted.”
“I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
Dr. Simons arrived shortly
thereafter, and Victor assisted him as needed. Julius fell asleep again, but
the doctor thought it was a good sign of healing, so they left him to his
slumbers. The rest of the day went by slowly for Victor—he wrote a letter to
Dr. Taylor of London, with whom he would be working for the next few months,
then went to take his lunch. As afternoon rolled upon him, he set to work in
the garden and planted a few more rows of carrot seeds in the rich, dark earth.
The work happily consumed several hours, and by the end he had finished
planting the garden and stood back to examine his work. He gazed appreciatively
at the neat rows of dark soil, imagining how they would look in a few weeks,
when the crop would really begin to grow.
As he replaced the garden tools in
the little shed, he noticed an inkwell and quill sitting out on the little
table that Julius used to sort seeds.
“Strange,” he remarked aloud,
raising the quill to examine it. The ink was wet, and the quill sharpened and
ready for use. Victor had never considered the possibility that the old servant
was literate; he had assumed the opposite, though he couldn’t quite remember
now how he had gotten that impression. Raising up the cloth that hung down over
the edge of the desk, he peered into the darkness below. And there, to his
further amazement, he found four books, which he drew out into the light.
One was a Bible, and another was
the Book of Common Prayer, which Victor set aside with a quiet smile. Julius’
faith ran deep; he knew that well. That was the source from which the old
servant drew his strength and grace. The third book was one that Victor had
never seen before. The simple cover bore nothing but the word Enquiry and the name of its author,
William Carey. The name was unfamiliar, but as he leafed through the book, he
saw that it was again fare of a spiritual and theological nature.
The fourth book was the one that
piqued his interest the most, however, because it wasn’t bound in the same
manner as the others—it was merely a collection of loose papers secured by thin
strips of cloth down one side. Opening it up, he saw that it was handwritten—drawn
out in a clumsy, erratic script. And it was long—as he ran his thumb over the
pages, all full, he realized that it must have been at least two hundred sheets
of handwritten material. He turned to the first page and scanned it quickly. It
was a narrative, telling the story of a young boy in Africa, living among a tribe
called the Mbeno. And to Victor’s surprise, the prose was passable—in some
points, even captivating.
He set the book down for a few
moments, still struggling with amazement at the discovery. He never would have
guessed that Julius could read, much less that he had been writing his own
book. Setting down the handwritten tome, he reached back and picked up the book
titled Enquiry. Drawing a deep
breath, he ran his hand over the clothbound cover and opened it. Light fell on
the first page, and the full title written there caught his eye: An Enquiry into the Obligations of
Christians to Use Means for the Conversion of the Heathens.
For nearly an hour, he sat there on
the wooden floor of the garden shed, his mind racing through the ideas
presented on those pages. William Carey was forceful, at times painfully blunt
in his argument—that Christendom had committed a great sin against the world
and against God by ignoring the commission to go and spread the Good News. Victor
leaned back and reflected on the matter for awhile. It was true—Europeans
reflected the belief that Europe was the heart
and soul of the world, and certainly the only part that really mattered. It had
never even crossed his mind that there were hundreds of thousands of other people
out there, scattered throughout the earth—people who had never heard the
glorious truths of the Gospel, people who were cast aside without hearing of
the Risen Christ. Troubled in heart, he closed the book again.
Drawing in a deep breath, he set it
back under the table along with the Bible and prayer book and tucked Julius’
work into the crook of his arm. He marched into the house and made for the room
where Julius lay, but as he approached he saw that the old servant was fast
asleep. In fact, he was snoring loudly, and Victor couldn’t help but smile at
him. He took the book up to his own chamber and set it aside, resolving to
speak to Julius about it later on and perhaps even read a bit more.
He strode out of his room again and
cast a glance at the old grandfather clock that stood at the end of the
hallway. It was time for him to go to his father’s shop to pick up his suit for
Anna’s party, but first he paused in the washroom to clean the dirt from his
hands. Rather than retrieving Phaeton, their old bay stallion, from the
paddock, he decided to walk into town. It was only a trip of a few minutes, but
he enjoyed it immensely. Canterbury was a beautiful city, and he never tired of
walking its narrow, ancient ways—paths he had frequented all his life. He made
his way directly to his father’s shop, along the main avenue of commerce, at
the end of which stood the old stone gate. The city was busy that day, and many
of the young men and ladies paused and greeted him as he passed by. Most were
friends from childhood days, and a few were even members of his old band of ragamuffin
scoundrels who had plagued the city in their younger years.
He entered the tailor shop, greeted
a few of the workers who were busily stitching fabric in the main room, and
continued on up the old wooden stairway to the upper floor. The room was a
jumble of fabrics and clothes of various colors and designs, stacked high on a
row of tables and illuminated by the afternoon sunlight that was streaming in
through the dusky window-panes. And there in the center of it all sat Ruben,
who was crouched over in a chair while Aidan McNeill stood above, glowering
down at him.
“Victor!”
Before he could brace himself, he
was wrapped in a crushing embrace, surrounded by Ruben’s massive arms. Tearing
himself loose, he laughed and slapped his friend on the back.
“Your father let you go early,
then?”
“Aye, that he did,” Ruben replied,
sitting back down in a little wooden chair in the center of the room. “He has
six other sons to help him, after all. And your grand old father here graciously
offered to give me a suit at no charge this time.”
Aidan harrumphed loudly and frowned
in distaste. “Would you believe, Victor, that your friend here has already
outgrown every suit we have available! It takes more than twice as much
material to cover his body as it does yours.”
“I believe it,” he chuckled, walking over to a
table, where he began to sort through piles of coats, trousers, and loose
fabric.
“You should be able to find
something there to meet your needs,” his father called out while stretching a
measuring line across Ruben’s shoulders.
They talked for a while as Aidan began
to create a coat large enough for the young Irishman. Most of the talk centered
around Julius and the fight outside the pub the night before. Neither Victor
nor Ruben could recall whether the men they fought were native to the city or
not, but Aidan spent quite a bit of time grumbling about the whole affair.
“All in all, son, you were lucky to
come out of it with just a black eye and a bloody nose.”
“I suppose,” Victor replied, reaching
up to test the bruised skin around his left eye. He was about to ask his father
about Julius’ book, but at the last moment he decided to wait until after he
had spoken to the servant about it.
“So, Victor,” Ruben called out,
“who is to escort Patience—you or me?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,
really.”
“Well, I have,” he said quickly. “And
seeing as you’re going to be leaving in a month for London , we wouldn’t want anything to further
disrupt your relationship with our dear friend Anna Nelson. And I believe that
seeing you escorting an attractive young woman like Patience might only serve
to deepen that wound.”
“Your reasoning is sound,” his
friend laughed. “But won’t Anna have her own escort?”
“If you’re referring to any of the
succession of swaggering, boat-riding heroes who have been fawning over her, I
suppose so. But they really don’t count much with anyone save Lord Nelson.”
“And perhaps Anna,” Victor said
with a meaningful glance. “She is our friend, Ruben, but she is not exclusively
ours.”
“Quite right, old chap,” he winked.
“But even so, you were her first love.”
“That’s stretching the truth a bit,
Rube.”
“I don’t think so. In any case, it
wouldn’t be a good birthday present for the lass if she found that her first
love was paired off with someone else. Therefore, I propose that I escort Miss
Patience Carmichael.”
Aidan chuckled. “Sounds like he’s
made up his mind, son. Best let him have his way with this one.”
Victor laughed as he slipped a dark
blue coat over his shoulders. “Very well, you may escort her. It was rather
nice of her to invite us to dinner, though, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, that it was.”
“Well, lads, don’t go expecting a
lavish meal,” Aidan cut in.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, the address she gave
you—that’s not the richest section of town by any means. And I’ve seen her here
and there over the past few weeks. Her father’s name is John, and he has only recently
moved here from Essex . He’s a Methodist
minister—a widower, I believe—and he’s come to call the citizens at the heart
of the English Church
Ruben turned slightly in his seat. “Methodists
dance, don’t they?”
Aidan shrugged. “I’m not sure that
they do.”
“Well then how on earth am I to
dance with the girl?”
“Just be glad she accepted the
invitation at all, lads. From what I’ve heard, Methodism is a strict order of
faith that has little time for frivolous things such as balls and dances.”
“Perhaps we should bring her a
gift,” Victor suggested. “It is customary to offer a small gift to the lady.”
“Aye, that’s a grand idea,” Ruben
agreed.
“Well,” Aidan chipped in, “you
could bring her a dress for the ball. My guess is that she probably doesn’t
have a great deal that would seem fitting for such an occasion. I’m sure we can
find something modest enough that it will pass the good minister’s standards.”