The Secret of Pembrooke Park(90)
“My favorite topic?” Miles raised his eyebrows. “Oh my, what could it be? Miss Foster, perhaps?” He tsked. “I don’t think your parishioners would approve.”
“No.”
“Then what are you suggesting is my favorite topic?”
William met the man’s challenging gaze with a warm smile. “Treasure.”
Chapter 18
On Sunday William dressed in his black forms, his newest bandage less bulky than the first and his arm more mobile now that the pain, without the aid of laudanum, had dulled somewhat. His father came to Pembrooke Park, wearing his customary black coat and grey waistcoat, which he thought befitted his position as parish clerk. Mac had returned to his own bed after the first two nights, once assured that William was doing well on his own.
“Ready?” his father asked.
“I think so, yes.”
“Don’t worry, lad. Folks won’t expect much of you this morning. They’ll understand you’ve been in no fit state for writing sermons.”
“Some believe that to be my perpetual state,” William quipped.
“Well. Can’t please everyone.”
“Don’t I know it.” He grinned at his father. “I would likely hear more complaints were most people not in awe of my fierce Scots father.”
Mac grinned. “If only Mrs. Peterman were of that same persuasion.”
When the church bells rang, people crowded into the boxes and pews, more than had attended in some time. William was surprised to see Miles Pembrooke in church, sitting with Miss Foster and her father, and his spirit quickened at the sight of him. At the opportunity. Around the nave, people stared at Miles and spoke in whispers and hushed grumbles and supposition.
Mac called the service to order, perhaps more sharply than usual, and everyone quieted.
Standing near a communion table swathed in white linen, William prayed the Lord’s Prayer and then continued on to the Collect and readings. He said, “And now let us proclaim our faith together. . . .”
Everyone stood to say aloud the Nicene Creed, words shared with fellow believers across the centuries and around the world. “I believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible: and in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God . . .”
When it came time for William to give a personal greeting and announcements before his sermon, he slowly looked around the nave, smiling at one and all.
“It is good to see so many in attendance this morning, though I know curiosity to view the damage done to the parsonage—and to the parson—may have drawn more of you than my fine oratory skills.”
A few quiet chuckles rumbled across the nave. Mrs. Peterman, however, sat ramrod straight, her mouth its usual stern line.
“Whatever the case, you are all welcome and I am glad to see you.” He glanced at Miles Pembrooke as he said it. “And again, my deepest thanks to those of you who came to help. My mother invites you all to our house after the service for tea or cider and her famous biscuits as a small token of our gratitude.”
This announcement was met with murmurs of approval.
When the crowd had quieted, William said, “It is good to draw together as a community after such an event. When problems strike, it is also a good time to draw close to God personally, to take stock of your own heart, your own life.” He looked again at Miles. “With this in mind, I am going to deviate from the planned text for the morning and hope you will indulge me.”
Mrs. Peterman, he saw, rolled her eyes.
William sent up a silent prayer, asking God to help him choose his words wisely and well. He began, “What would you do if your house burned to the ground? Perhaps it has. Which of us can forget the Wilsons’ fire of five years ago? So much loss. What if you were to lose all your worldly possessions because of fire, or theft, or financial tragedy?”
Mr. Foster, he noticed, shifted uncomfortably.
“Are your dearest possessions fireproof? Your valuables safe forever? Do you spend your time in the constant quest of attaining more?”
His father read from the sixth chapter of Matthew. “‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.’”
William looked out at the congregation. “And, I might add, where fire destroys.”
Again his gaze snagged on Miles Pembrooke. William hoped he was not using his sermon as a chance to bludgeon the man indirectly. For Mr. Pembrooke was a treasure seeker, whether or not he’d had anything to do with the fire. Lord, guard my mind and tongue.
“Some of us go through life spending a great deal of effort accumulating possessions or wealth, saving for a rainy day or an uncertain future. And if our means are modest, we spend our energies thinking about where our next meal will come from.
“Don’t misunderstand me. Those of you who are husbands and fathers are right to think ahead, and take care of your families. And I commend you for it. But there is a difference between providing for our families and laying up treasures. Longing after riches. Or searching for some mythical treasure “out there” somewhere to try and make ourselves happy. But we all know that earthly treasure will never satisfy the deepest longings of our souls, don’t we? I can hear Mr. Matthews say, ‘No, Parson, but it sure would help feed my five strapping sons.’”