Page 46 of Against the Wind

“I’d be willing to do that if it would please her,” offered Kit.

George said, “I’ll ask.”

Taking away her empty dishes, he retreated to the kitchen. She heard him talking to his mother in muted conversation, and then his voice rose. “I’ve only a few more things to see to, and then I’ll be off.”

“See that ye hurry or they will be having the revolution without you,” Mrs. Weightman replied.

His shoulders were slumped resignedly as he returned to finish his work, and he didn’t say another word to Kit but hurriedly attended his mother’s bidding. Kit picked up her sketchbook and turned toward the door, but the woman’s words came back as she did. Revolution? What revolution was it that George’s mother wanted him to be part of?

She pondered this as she set off on her morning walk. Kit decided she would see the old church the coachman told her about. As she strolled across the road the beauty of the surrounding country overwhelmed her senses. Raised in London, she found the roads here a pleasant change, bordered by flowers in many places and flanked by trees. All was surrounded by expanses of green rolling hills and small white cottages. She reveled in the peace not found in the city, and the sweet chirping of birds, an occasional chicken pecking at the ground in a yard facing a cottage, and the sounds of horse-drawn carts. The smiles of the folks passing her were welcome additions.

The Church of St. Matthew was the most imposing structure in Pentridge. It stood on a hill above the village, a monument to a time long past. It wasn’t hard to imagine knights and their ladies worshipping there. The ancient sanctuary drew her, so incongruous was it to the otherwise simple village. Rising above the gray stone of the main structure was a tall square tower with a crenellated top that, when she’d first seen it, reminded her of the sawtooth battlement of a castle. The main building had the same crenellated roof. It was a most impressive sight, and so different from the village’s otherwise simple inns, taverns, shops and cottages.

Kit walked to the top of the hill, determined to see inside the formidable structure. On her way she passed stone grave markers, some obviously very old as the writing was weathered by time and the elements.

Entering through the church’s arched wooden door, she noticed the stone beneath her feet. Like the rest of the building it appeared worn and ancient. Two aisles separated the simple wooden benches facing the nave. Between the main part of the church and the nave were five tall arches. Colored glass windows depicted scenes from the Bible. The morning sun shone through these, scattering beautiful hues around the church like the kaleidoscope she and Martin had received as a wedding present.

As she was absorbing this stately place of worship, thinking how she might draw it, a man dressed as a gentleman approached from the other side of the arches.

“Good day, miss. Are you visiting Pentridge?”

Kit supposed the vicar would know everyone in such a small village, so she was not surprised he took her to be the stranger she was. “Yes, I am. My husband and I are here just for a short time. I was admiring the church.”

Rather thin but with strong features and a welcoming presence, the older man came to stand in front of her. “I am Hugh Wolstenholme, the new curate of Pentridge. The vicar is away for some weeks. Welcome to our parish.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wolstenholme,” Kit said. “I am…Mrs. Donet.” Hating to lie to a man of the church and not wishing to dwell on her name or her reason for being in the village, she gestured to the nave and the windows. “Your church is very grand and so…ancient.”

He looked around as if trying to see it through her eyes. “I have always thought St. Matthew’s quite special, and it is indeed ancient. I have a few minutes. Would you like me to show you around?”

“Yes, if you have the time. I was just noticing the tiles we are standing on. Are they original?”

“No, not original, but still very old. They date to the fourteenth century. Normans built the church eleven hundred years after our Lord walked the earth. Of course, it has been added to down through the centuries, but there is much that harkens back to the original construction.”

“In the churchyard…the gravestones. Some seem very old.”

“They are. Did you see the Saxon cross?” At her nod the curate added, “Perhaps that would be a good place to begin.”

They walked out the door and onto the green grass from which rose the large flat standing gravestones. “Some are Saxon,” the curate said, pointing to a tall, tilting, sand-colored marker. “Though the stones still mark the graves, the writing has long since worn away.” Gesturing to the tallest he added, “These are as old as the church, perhaps older, but some of our headstones are quite new. And I fear there soon will be more.”

Kit looked up at the frowning cleric. “Oh?”

“I suppose you’d not know, being as you’re not from this part of the country. Times have been hard in the Midlands. Some of the parishioners were lost to hunger in recent years and four young men are currently awaiting hanging for setting fire to Colonel Hatton’s haystacks in South Wingfield.”

“Why would they set fire to a colonel’s haystacks?” Apparently the countryside was not as peaceful as she thought.

“Colonel Hatton is the local magistrate and squire. People in the countryside are frustrated because they cannot gain the attention of the authorities to help them in their hour of need. Likely it was a way of getting his attention. Not a very good one to be sure. On the other side of it, the prosecutors are overzealous and looking for anyone to hang as a warning to others. The young men have protested their innocence, and I for one agree they may very well be falsely accused. But it does not seem to matter what the church believes.”

Kit was surprised by what some would consider a radical view for a member of the clergy more typically aligned with the gentry. Perhaps the curate was closely tied to these men and their families, considering them his flock. But he had said he was a new curate. How strange.

“It sounds like a rather dire situation,” she offered, sad for any people who struggled so.

“It is. Even the Prince Regent has recognized the severe trials the people have undergone, I daresay made worse by the heavy tax burden caused by the war with France. But the war is over and the justification for such taxes no longer exists.”

“Have you heard the Prince Regent speak of such matters, Mr. Wolstenholme?” Kit asked.

“Nay, but I read Cobbett’s Political Register, and many a time it has printed His Majesty’s speeches. Cobbett recognizes how easy it is to suspend the Act of Habeas Corpus, easy to enact the Sedition bills and easy to muzzle the press, but it is not so easy to quiet the cries of the paupers among us. As Mr. Cobbett says, ‘A country filled with paupers is not easily restored to happiness.’”

“I see. I did not realize how badly the people in the countryside were faring.” She’d been so occupied with tending her sister that she’d seen little of the news. Still, she was aware of the publication all England seemed to be reading now that newspapers were so expensive, though she hadn’t realized there were men in the countryside who followed Cobbett’s persuasive rhetoric.