Chapter Nine: Felicity Barton

  This morning, I enjoyed a stroll in the evening sun. The eye of heaven graced all the woods surrounding my person. Oh, how beautiful it was. 

Nature is a finer world than the presence of industries and crowded cities. It is a lost green garden, no longer loved as it once was. When we forget nature, we forget our purpose in creation as stewards of this earth to preserve the plants and paradise that humanity was meant to share. 

The previous words were composed by a writer of sixteen years of age. Inspired by the literature she studied, she also sat under one great oak while reading Ovid's The Metamorphoses concerning Cupid and Psyche. Seeing an illustration in the book of the two lovers, she always remained curious as to the true depth of love's meaning. Were love and romance one and the same? Which of the two was the greatest? Always praiseworthy of the tale, she wished to write as Ovid had. 

Her name was Felicity Barton, and though few knew that name, it is often the unknown who change history. Kings proclaim victory for the battles that soldiers fight, and politicians take credit for what the common people suffer to legally achieve. Still, it is the everyday people who direct the course of the future. Miss Barton was one of these ordinary people. Despite ignorance of God's providence in her life, someday, she would contribute far more to others' lives than she would have ever anticipated. 

Smelling the Spring's fresh air, the young woman lifted to her feet. Her teeth expressed a wide smile as she observed several cotoneasters before her. Everything was charming to behold, lovely to observe, and gratifying to honor. 

She rushed into the nearby field, joyful of the many red flowers and white sheep around her. Beneath the great clouds, she felt them hardly far from her. Imagining a dozen nymphs in the clouds, she also fantasized about them being beside a company of muses singing a tale concerning love and redemption. It was a wild dream that sank into her soul yet was never far from her thoughts. 

Several deer ran behind the woods. Seeing them, she thought of the medievals whom she loved to read about and the world of knights and castles that had always intrigued her mind. 

Returning to the greenwood, she sat back down, this time reading a theological work. Felicity was reading Augustine's Confessions. Seeing her, Mr. Barton shook his head while disappointed that his daughter had deflected to theological views older than his faith. 

Thomas turned to her. ''Felicity, my dear, you should spend more time reading about the dissenters. There is no room for admiration of liturgy. I know that Miss Hill, your aunt, respects the Church of England, but we Baptists follow the Christian faith as the Aspoltles knew it. Don't you know the theology of the Apostles? Your sister Isabelle may be a Calvinist, and you an Anglican, at least at heart, but as your father, I insist that we only read the Bible. There are good sermons from our minister, Robert Daleford, to instruct us in faithful theology.'' 

Nodding, she didn't wish to disrespect him. Her father was not dislikable, even though his positions on politics and faith, he never seemed to think much though. Whenever he couldn't justify his opinions, he appealed to Robert Daleford, their pastor, whom he trusted to interpret the Bible for him. 

''Recently,'' he added, ''I have been learning much from John Gill's commentary on the Bible. It was recommended to me by Revered Daleford. And...''

He instructed her about why Gill's commentary, in his view, properly explained the Scriptures. Smiling to herself, Felicity thought about the irony of her father's reasoning. He insisted that the commentaries of the ancient church fathers were extra-Biblical but had no problem seeing the verbal preaching of Baptist preachers or Gill's commentary as themselves being extra-Biblical views concerning Scripture. 

''Only the Bible,'' he continued, ''that's what good minister Robert Haleford says. Because everything he preaches is from the Bible.''

But was it? Felicity realized that their minister, as well-meaning as he was, still had his own opinions about what Scripture taught. Why were his views more correct than those who had lived closest to the time of Christ? Had the Baptists received some divine intervention from God that no other Christian had received for the first fifteen hundred years? If anything, she was inclined to study those who knew best what it was like to be a first-century Christian. 

''Stay away from the Church of England,'' Thomas insisted while rubbing his right hand on his overreaching stomach. ''Liturgical legalism has detained many men from enjoying their life to their fullest potential.'' 

''Thank you, father,'' she simply replied. 

Facing the sky, Thomas breathed out as he briefly noticed the bright afternoon. ''I take it that your and Isabelle's trip to your Aunt Jane's home went well?''

''Yes, indeed, Father.''

''And did she instruct you again about what she thinks literature says?'' 

''Yes. She always does that. We love her, though.'' 

''That woman, I have never known anyone to think of themself as knowing far more than what they do.'' 

She looked up at him with a smile. Again, he missed the irony of his speech. 

''On another note, Mrs. Weathers, your aunt Margaret will likely be in Oxford soon,'' Thomas added. ''I expect her to be here any hour.''

Miss Barton again lifted to her feet. ''I look forward to seeing her. We saw her at Ada's wedding last year. Isabelle looks forward to seeing her as much as I do.'' 

''Yes, and Felicity, now that you are sixteen, being of age, I think it's proper that Mrs. Weathers see us in time for a ball. We will be headed with her to Bath.''

Her smile widened. ''Really?'' she asked. ''I did not anticipate this. How exciting.''

Thomas embraced his daughter. ''I have never cared for dancing, but I know that my daughters do. Oh, now that your brother Albert is married and in Wales, I wish for more acquaintances for you and Isabelle. Your elder sister, Margaret, has detached herself from both of you, as sad as I am to say it. She only thinks of parties and balls anymore, but you, Felicity, recall the world as it once was.''

There was a brief silence of speech. Thomas recalled Felicity in her adolescence as he beheld her in his arms. The thought vanquished as he was instead distracted by his desire to consume fried fish. 

''Come,'' Mr. Barton said, ''Let us head back to our house as we enjoy an early supper with your aunt from Chesterfield.'' 

Felicity clasped her hands together. Her literary abilities were growing, as were her creativity as a writer. Thinking of her aunt, she wondered how Churchill Estates was now. It had been several years since she had last been to Yorkshire. 

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