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Where Love Calls, Where There is Love #6

By Donna Fletcher Crow

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One

T
he late April sunshine glinted off the slow-flowing waters of the Cam, forcing Hilda Beauchamp to adjust her parasol to shade her eyes better as she struggled to identify the men sitting in the long, slim shell of the Trinity boat, each holding his oar poised above the surface of the water. Her brother Montague was easy enough to pick out, with his smooth, dark hair and dramatically drooping mustache. That must be his friend William Hoste behind him. She hadn’t met Hoste but had heard Monty mention that William wore his sideburns long and full, in the fashion of the Royal Artillery. But where is Stanley Smith?
Hilda scanned the length of the boat and back again, then shook her head. None of the eight heads bent over their oars gleamed with the familiar pale gold. And none of the bodies seemed built on his somewhat slighter lines, although most seemed slender compared to her brother’s vigorous build. Had Stanley’s lungs worsened? Had his wracking cough returned? Or worse, had the illness recurred that had made him leave Repton early and spend a year convalescing before coming up to Cambridge? She knew he overworked, spending long hours training on the cold, damp river when he would have been much better off reading before a fire in his rooms in Market Passage.
“Are you ready?” The starter, standing in his box with upraised flag, called Hilda’s attention back to the race. There was no reply to the starter’s question from the six Cambridge crews, all sitting with raised oars.
“Go.” The flag snapped down.The four oars on each side of the Trinity boat cut into the water. It shot forward. As the rowers pulled against the oars, their seats slid backward, adding leg drive to the thrust of the arms. Hilda well understood this as she had heard her brother talk endlessly about the strong back and stomach muscles required to achieve the all-important body swing.
The smooth motion propelled the scull swiftly up its lane. But apparently not swiftly enough, for the Jesus boat in the lane next to Trinity was pulling steadily ahead of all the others. Impossible. Their technique was terrible. Even an untrained eye like Hilda’s could see that the body swing of the Jesus team was almost nonexistent, and their stroke, while smooth, lacked form. Yet they held, even increased, their speed.
The boats skimmed on up the straight stretch of the river above Ely where the Cambridge crews rowed because the river was too curved closer to the university. How will Monty bear it if he loses his place for the university races? Hilda worried. Worse, how will those around him bear it if Monty loses his temper?
Hilda felt as if she had held her breath for the full time it took the boats to cover the 6,600-foot course. And the Jesus crew held their lead the whole way. At least Trinity came in next. Would that be enough for them to qualify for the University Eights? And if so, would Monty be on the final crew? And where on earth was Stanley?
Hilda turned at the pressure of her mother’s hand on her arm. “Pity they didn’t win. But Montague was quite magnificent—don’t you think? I’m certain he’ll make the Eights.”
Hilda smiled. As usual, Lady Beauchamp was indomitable. “Yes, Mother, I do hope so. Let’s go ask him.” Hilda lifted the skirt of her blue and green striped dress just enough to allow her to walk down the riverbank toward the spot where the crews were bringing their shells ashore.
Halfway there she stopped. Was Monty upbraiding the captain of the Jesus boat for his team’s lack of form? Surely her brother would not display such bad manners. And yet when his temper got the upper hand...
Lady Beauchamp was as cool as her son was heated. “I am sorry, my dear. I would love to speak to Montague, too. But he appears to be quite involved at the moment. And we really mustn’t miss the next train to Norwich. I’m chairing the meet¬ing of the Seamen’s Relief Society this afternoon.”
Hilda sighed. She wanted to know the results of the race, and yet she must return to Langley Hall. Her mother would not be home until dinnertime, and Hilda must see to the prepara¬tions for their weekend guests. They had been fortunate that Lady Beauchamp’s morning meeting with the dean of Ely Cathedral had given them just enough time to watch Monty row. Hilda turned with a final look round for Stanley Smith.
“Hilda, where are your manners, dear? Acknowledge those young men. I’m sure their bows are for you and not for me.” Lady Beauchamp dipped her parasol in gracious recognition of three varsity men. “Aren’t those the cricketing brothers Montague introduced us to at Christmas?”
Hilda tipped her head in the direction of the young men. “Oh, yes, the three Studd brothers.” Hilda offered her most gracious smile to the brother on the left. “The eldest one—Kynaston—would make a fine beau for Ida. Don’t you think so, Mama?”
“I’m certain any friend of Montague’s would be most respectable.”
“Yes. I rather fancy Kynaston Studd is somewhat more than respectable. I have asked Monty to bring him to Langley.” Hilda moved on, still hoping to catch sight of the slim, blond, fine-featured young man that she had settled on as a most respectable beau for herself.
Two hours later Hilda sighed with satisfaction. Surely in all of God’s green earth there wasn’t a lovelier spot than Langley Park at daffodil time. And in all Hilda’s twenty-one years, there had never been a more beautiful spring than this of 1881.
Everything was perfect. As perfect, at least, as it could be in view of her worry over her temperamental brother and his erratic friend. Her satisfaction faded, and her high, usually smooth, brow wrinkled with a scowl. And where was her sister?
“Ida!” Her voice took on an impatient edge—not at all the way Lady Beauchamp, the daughter of Baron Radstock, had so carefully trained her daughters to speak, but it was Hilda.
She tugged up the flounce of the white cotton dress she had changed into for afternoon, pulling it backward to add to the fashionable bustle effect. Thank goodness for dress reforms. Ladies’ dresses now allowed for more flexibility at the waist and in the shoulders. Hilda disliked being restricted in her movements, especially when there was so much to see to. She had left precise orders with Beeson, but she must see that tea was laid out properly to welcome Monty and his friends. Whatever the outcome of the boat tri¬als, her brother’s appetite would be unflagging. And if Stanley were unwell, he would need all the nourishment he could be encouraged to take. Perhaps she could add cheese to the tea menu. Or egg sandwiches. Cook’s heavy, dark currant cake was strengthening; she would give orders that it be cut extra thick.
Hilda had taken only a few steps along the daffodil-bordered gravel path leading from the conservatory across the northeast lawn, when she heard the crunch of carriage wheels approaching from the wooded drive. She was torn between welcoming their guests or finding her sister to make certain Ida’s hair was properly arranged in case Kynaston Studd had joined the party.
Hilda hesitated only a moment. In spite of her desire to see Stanley Smith, she knew her duty. Which Ida obviously did not. Although it was nearly teatime, the eldest Beauchamp daughter would doubtless still be wearing a loose-fitting morning dress, sunk deep in reading a meditation by John Donne or a volume of sermons.
Hilda hurried into the house and flung open the study’s high, dark oak doors. “Just as I suspected. Ida, you really are hopeless.” Hilda crossed the deep pile of the maroon carpet to the high-backed plush chair where Ida sat bent over a leather-bound volume. “Who is it—Rowland Hill or Mr. Spurgeon?” She plucked the book of sermons from Ida’s hands.
Ida looked up, blinking her round blue eyes in the soft light filtering through the stained-glass window. “Oh. No, no. This is a new volume Mother had sent down from Edinburgh. The Rev. George MacDonald.” She reached for the book. “Here, let me read a passage to you, Hilda. It’s most instructive.”
“I’ve no doubt that it is.” Hilda firmly placed the book on a table far from Ida’s reach. “But Monty and his friends have just arrived, and Mama is still at her meeting. As the eldest daughter, you must see to serving the tea. But not in that dress. And have Violet fix your hair.”
“Oh, Hilda, can’t you and Tottie...”
Hilda didn’t even bother to answer as she ushered her sister from the room. She sighed. As usual, it was all up to her. In the dressing room the sisters shared, she stepped to the wall and gave two sharp tugs at the bell cord, issuing her call in the depths of the house. The third yank pulled the gold silk rope from the wall and left it limp in her hand. Ellen, the parlor maid, her dark hair topped with a crisp lace cap, hurried in and bobbed a curtsy.
“Ellen, send someone to the stables to inform Miss Constance that our guests are arriving.” Not that Hilda expected such information would prod her twin sister into cutting short her ride in the park to see to her duty.
Life would have been so much easier for Hilda if she could have been the perfect submissive lady, like Ida, or concerned only about her own activities, like Tottie. But then who would have seen to the interests of the family while their mother was about her evangelical work? Of course, it should be Ida’s place, but she was the most hopeless of all. Reading sermons and poetry from morning till night. Well, at least Ida did take an interest in her policemen’s charity, but she would have to bestir herself more forcefully if she were to become the wife of Kynaston Studd. Or Hilda would stir herself on her sister’s behalf.
Perhaps it would be different if their father were still living, but since his death seven years ago, Lady Beauchamp had become ever more spiritually minded, letting more and more of the practicalities fall on her second daughter’s most capable shoulders. Hilda made her way down the polished parquet floor of the circular passage toward the grand entrance hall. She paused before an oval gilt-framed mirror in the anteroom just long enough to smooth a few strands of unruly hair back into their swirling cluster atop her head and run a damp¬ened fingertip over the heavy brows that framed her wide, dark eyes. At the sound of Beeson moving to open the main door, Hilda squared her unfashionably broad shoulders and stepped between the cut velvet curtains draping the archway.
“Monty, welcome home.” She lifted her cheek to her brother, and he gave her an offhanded kiss, tickling her cheek with his sharply angled mustache. She turned to his companion. “How nice to see you again, Mr. Studd.” She offered her hand for their guest to bow over.
Kynaston Studd brushed her hand with his mustache—much smaller and more finely trimmed than Montague’s— in perfect keeping with Kynaston’s sharp aristocratic features. Yes, he and Ida would make a striking couple.
Hilda frowned in puzzlement as Beeson closed the door. “Oh, Mr. Studd, didn’t your brothers come, too?” Stanley Smith was the one she wanted to know about, but it would seem forward to ask.
“Won’t you call me Kynaston, Miss Hilda? My brothers were sadly disappointed not to be able to speak to you and Lady Beauchamp at Ely. Unfortunately, George won’t be able to come, but C. T. will be coming later with Smith and Hoste.”
Ah, that was good news. At least Stanley wasn’t too ill to travel.
Monty’s explanation put Hilda’s mind at rest. “Smith’s boat raced last. Came on ahead—Kinny and I.”
“Yes, that’s fine. Monty, you rowed superbly, but...” Concern for his feelings stopped her question.
Monty gave a roll of his hearty laughter. As always his earlier outburst of temper had been short-lived. “Ah, that Aussie on the Jesus crew, you mean? Strange notions of style. Nuisance of a fellow. Told him so.”
“But, Monty, did you make the Eight?”
“Hope so. Know soon.” He gave an expansive bound that carried him past the fireplace and onto the first step of the dark oak stairway. “Need more than your cucumber sandwiches for tea, Hilda. Kinny and I are ravening. Won’t have to wait on Tottie, will we? Saw her chasing through the park on that long-legged chestnut of hers when we came up the drive.”
Hilda smiled at her brother’s disappearing back. At least her augmented tea menu wouldn’t go to waste. She followed Monty up the stairs. Her twin could look after herself. It was Ida who required Hilda’s attention—whether Ida appreciated the fact or not.
Hilda found her sister in the Ladies’ Boudoir sitting beneath the exquisitely painted rococo ceiling, reading an essay by John Bunyan. Hilda surveyed her sister’s ivory lace afternoon dress.
“Yes, that will do very well. But why didn’t you have Violet dress your hair with ribbons? I’m certain Mr. Studd is a man who would appreciate ribbons in a lady’s hair. He has exquisite taste in his own dress. He’s wearing the most perfectly cut frock coat—unlike that odious sack coat of Monty’s.” She shuddered.
Ida sighed and laid her book aside. “Sister, if Kynaston Studd is such a fine catch, why don’t you have him yourself? I’m sure he far preferred your company when we all met last Christmas.”
Hilda plumped the pillow in the velvet chair Ida rose from. “Don’t be silly, Ida. You and Kynaston suit perfectly. Now Stanley Smith—there’s a man I could make something of. Such great spirit and determination. Look what he’s accomplished with the Trinity Boat Club.”
“Then why does he need you?” In spite of her normal complaisance, Ida seemed bent on being difficult today.
“Precisely because of his enormous potential. When I think of all the time he spends in the damp at Cambridge with his lungs...” She shook her head. “And then all his high spiritual goals that end in such discouragement.”
“Hilda, how do you know such things?” Ida sounded shocked.
“Why, Monty tells me of his concern for his friends. Which is a very good sign in Monty. His own convictions are casual enough. He even spoke of the possibility of a Bible study for the boat club—and I encouraged him, of course.”
As she spoke, Hilda removed the amber and topaz necklace from around Ida’s neck and replaced it with a triple strand of delicate pearls. “There. That’s much better.” She tipped her head to one side to regard her sister. “But I didn’t come to discuss Mr. Smith. I want you to promise to pay attention to Kynaston Studd.”
Ida started to protest, but Hilda rushed on. “Of all the Studd brothers, he’s the best. He’s a fine Christian and the only one who thinks of anything besides cricket and horses as far as I can see. Of course, he’s had to see to the business since his father died. That’s why he went up to Cambridge later than his two younger brothers.” Hilda paused, considering. “Ida, you must take a little more interest in sport. Ask Mr. Studd about his cricketing.”
Hilda ignored Ida’s firmly shaking head. “And you should ride out for a little exercise while he’s here. Tottie always garners admiring looks when she’s on Admiral.”
Now Ida laughed. “Hilda, you’re the one who should be riding Admiral. You take after Grandfather.”
The wall above the high, dark wainscoting of Lady Beauchamp’s sitting room was surrounded with the sea paintings collected by her father—George Granville Waldegrave, the second Baron Radstock, who had risen to the position of vice-admiral.
“And it’s a good thing if I do.” Hilda shooed her sister out of the room in front of her. “I’m perfectly convinced that being a commander in the Mediterranean couldn’t have been any more difficult than trying to see to the best interests of this family.”
Ida saluted and made her way with her sister to the tea table set beside the gently splashing fountain on the northeast lawn. Their brother and his guest were already there. The men stood at the ladies’ approach, and Hilda frowned when Monty seated Ida while Kynaston held a chair for herself.
“Mr. Studd,” Hilda urged, “tell us about the prospects for the Cambridge Eleven this season. My sister was just saying how much she enjoys cricket.”
He turned to Ida. “I am happy to hear that, Miss Beauchamp. You must come to one of our matches sometime.”
Ida acknowledged the invitation, and Hilda was certain Kynaston would have gone on if only Ida had asked. Instead the infuriating girl turned to their brother. “Oh, Monty, I received a letter from Alice Polhill-Turner. She mentioned that her brother Arthur is at Cambridge. Do you know him?”
“P. T.?” Monty nodded. “Trinity Hall. Sporting fellow. Very lively. Drives the smartest dog cart around.”
Ida frowned. “I wonder if that’s the same man? Alice said her brother is studying for ordination.”
Kynaston wrinkled his fine brow. “That’s the one. Cricket, dramatics dub, hunting—but no time for the Christian Union.”
The two varsity men continued talking of university activ¬ities while Hilda’s irritation increased. Even with Monty and Kynaston doing full justice to all the cake and sandwiches, the others had not arrived by the time they were finished.
Kynaston looked at the smooth green lawn spreading before them down to the daffodil-bordered park. “I see the fame of Langley’s gardens is well deserved.”
“Yes. They were laid out by Capability Brown in the time of the first baronet. And our brother Granville has added some most interesting specimens to the arboretum. He was taken with the magnificent redwood trees he saw on his visit to California a few years ago. We have several seedlings sprouting in the park now.
Ida, I’m certain our guest would like...” With one of her quick gestures, Hilda waved toward the path in a hint that Ida should offer to accompany their guest on a stroll.
But as with so many of her hasty movements, this one ended in disaster. She bumped Ida’s half-full teacup, sending it into her sister’s lap.
Hilda jumped up, dabbing at Ida’s lace gown with a linen napkin. “Oh, Ida, I’m so sorry. Why do I do these things? I sim¬ply hate being so clumsy. And you were just about to set out on such a lovely stroll. But I’m sure Mr. Studd won’t mind waiting while you change.”
“No, no, think nothing of it, Hilda,” Ida insisted. “I’m sure our guest would rather have you for escort. Besides, Monty was just telling me of a new book he brought from Cambridge.”
Hilda bit her lip as Monty escorted his elder sister toward the house. All her careful planning, all her hard work—ruined by one careless dash of her hand. Why couldn’t she be soft and contemplative like Ida or carefree and open like Constance? It seemed that her only admirable quality was her desire to help people. It was simply too bad that they seemed to have so little desire to be helped by her.

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