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Where Love Begins, Where There is Love #1

By Donna Fletcher Crow

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One





“NED, YOU’RE BLEEDING!” Catherine Perronet rushed across the room to her brother. “What happened?” She took his arm to lead him to a chair, but he drew back sharply.
“Don’t touch it, Cath. It may be broken.”
“Broken!” This was too much even for Catherine’s usually unruf¬fled calm. “Were you attacked by a mob again?”
Edward Perronet smiled weakly. “I attempted to sow the seeds of truth to a sunrise crowd making their way to work near Brixton. Shall we just say they were stony soil?”
“Apparently. They found plenty of stones to hurl at you.” Catherine turned to fetch a bowl of water and some rags. “We must call a doctor for your arm, but I shall wash your wounds first. If Durial should see you in your present state, I wouldn’t vouch for the safety of your future child.”
“Pray, do clean me up, sister. I would rather face another mob than Durial if she were to see so much grime in the vicinity of her chair covers and carpet.” He looked at his boots caked with fresh mud from the April rains.
Catherine directed a servant girl to bring a fresh roll of bandages and sent the stable boy into Greenwich for the doctor. At just past seven o’clock in the morning she could hope he would still be at home. If he could be persuaded to leave his breakfast.
When she had staunched the blood from the worst of her brother’s head injuries, and had cleansed all the caked blood and mud from his hair and face, she paused in her labors. “I must say, Ned, this is a fine way to make your homecoming after three weeks absence. I suppose the family of an itinerant preacher should become accustomed to such behavior; but still, you could have sent us some word of your progress in Wales. Were you beaten there too?”
Ned raised his tall, lanky body straighter in the chair, moving carefully to protect his damaged arm. His expression became suddenly serious, far graver than it had been over his physical injuries. “Sit down, Catherine. I have news I didn’t want to put in a message. I fear it may distress you.”
Catherine sat with quiet dignity. “In that case, let us have it quickly.”
“My stay in Wales was extended because I attended the marriage of Charles Wesley to Miss Sally Gwynne.”
Catherine stared at her brother. She heard the words, but her mind refused to make sense out of them. “Charles is married? Charles Wesley?” My Charles? “But I thought... I hoped ... I was almost sure ...” She forced a little hiccup to cover what wanted to come out as a sob.
“Forgive me, Ned. I fear I have been indulging in foolish fantasies. But after you told me of the list of women John Wesley thought would make eligible wives for his brother ...”
“That was most unwise of me. I should never have told you.”
“On the contrary, the information provided me many happy fancies with which to while away dull hours. You made it quite clear that there were three names on the list and that Sally Gwynne’s was among them. I fear that I simply relied too much on the fact that Catherine Perronet was first on the list.”
“And lest you hear from another and think me a traitor, I must also tell you that the letter I carried to Mrs. Gwynne from our father was instrumental in winning that reluctant lady’s approval to the match.”
“You and Father both? And what of our own Charl? Surely you knew he had spoken of a fondness for Miss Gwynne too.”
Ned nodded. “Yes, I am fully aware that many hopes will be disappointed.”
“If you carried a letter to Mrs. Gwynne, you must have known what was to take place. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I had an idea it was likely. I knew Charles hoped most fervently. But I also knew her parents had not consented and might not, so I wished to spare you pain in case nothing came of the matter.”
Ned rose and crossed the room to take his sister’s hand. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of news that wounds you so deeply, Catherine. But I thought it best to come from one who loves you. I wish I could say something to ease your pain.”
She shook her lace-capped head of rich, dark curls and forced a
tremulous smile. “Thank you, Ned. It’s nice to know someone loves me.” She withdrew her hand and resumed her composed posture. “Now, I think you had best finish what you’ve begun and tell me about the lady ... at least assure me that she is worthy of so great a prize.”
“That comfort I can vouchsafe you. Sally Gwynne is a fine musi¬cian and a beautiful young woman. And she is from one of the first families in that part of Wales.”
“Fah, that is not what I wish to hear. Will she make Cha … the
Reverend Mr. Wesley a good wife? Will she keep him comfortable? Support his work? Make him happy?”
“Yes. As far as it’s possible to predict such things, I believe she will do all that. She is much younger than he, by twenty years I should think, but she has the heart of one much more mature. When Mrs. Gwynne tried to make Charles promise never to return to Ireland where he was so nearly stoned last month, Sally jumped to her feet and said, ‘Indeed, I shall go with him!’” Ned paused before driving in the final nail. “And Charles is much in love with her.”
Catherine nodded, then turned slightly away so that her brother should not see the tears that persisted in brimming her eyes no matter how staunchly she ordered them not to. “Thank you, Ned. I am content. At least, I shall be soon.”
She stood, shook out the panniers under her wide blue skirt, and checked that the fine lawn fichu at her neck was in place. “I believe I hear the wheels of the doctor’s carriage on the gravel. I shall prepare my sister-in-law for the shock of receiving her battered husband. But do not forget to put on a clean jacket before you present yourself to her.”
Durial Perronet was resting in her room upstairs, her curtains drawn against the midmorning sun, and a cloth of lavender water folded on her brow. It was indeed fortunate that the Perronet fortunes were well-endowed from their family estates in France, for no mere itinerant Methodist preacher could afford to keep such a wife as Durial. “Am I disturbing you, sister?” Catherine asked.
Durial sat up, carefully placed the lavender-water cloth on the marble stand by her bed, and arranged the neckline of her sprigged cotton dressing gown. “I am happy for a visitor. What is all the com¬ing and going I hear below?”
“Ned is returned from Wales.”
Durial pulled back her sheets without care for wrinkling them. “My husband home, and I not told? Oh, where are my slippers?”
Catherine produced the slippers from under the four-poster bed.
“He will join you in a few minutes. But I must tell you first, there was an altercation ...”
“Oh, no.”Durial sank back on her pillows. “Was he stoned again?”
“I fear so. But he is quite unharmed—except for his arm. The doctor is with him now.”
“Doctor! Oh, why will he not give up this dangerous enthusiasm and take a settled parish? I don’t ask him to stop preaching, although I could wish he gave more time to his hymn-writing; but why can he not be content to be a respectable vicar like his father? Your father has been settled at Shoreham for these thirty years and your mother did not have to bear any of her twelve children while in fear for her hus¬band’s life.”
Catherine was still doing her best to reassure her brother’s wife several minutes later when Ned entered, his arm in a sling. “Edward,” Durial surveyed her husband with narrowed eyes. “If I weren’t so glad to see you, I should give you the thorough scolding you deserve. If you refuse to take any thought for your wife’s nerves, at least you might think of your son.” She put her hand to her waist where evidence of new life was just beginning to show.
“If you will excuse me, I shall leave you two to sort this out. I must get to work. The children should find their teacher in her place when they enter.” Catherine crossed to the door.
“Cath, you are not going to the Foundry today? Not after— everything?” Ned turned away from Durial. “I will send a message that I am unable to drive you. The arm is not broken, merely severely bruised. Still...”
“Fah! What does that say to anything? Our father taught me to drive when I was twelve years old. One of the stable boys can accompany me.” Ned started to protest, but she stopped him. “Please. I would much rather be alone.”

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