Cover image © Mark Owen / Arcangel
Cover design copyright © 2019 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2019 by Sarah M. Eden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN:978-1-52440-863-3
To Karen Adair,
for keeping me going through countless ups and downs;
we’ve laughed together, cried together, celebrated together,
and I don’t know what I’d do without you
Acknowledgments
Thank you to:
James Woodforde, a parson in the English countryside, whose diary, kept from 1758–1802, offered incredible insights into the day-to-day experiences of clergymen in the 19th century.
Alexis Sorenson at The Quarry climbing gym for showing me the ropes (literally) and helping me discover a previously unknown love of rock climbing.
The team at Anglican Pastor for such detailed information on rites, rituals, beliefs, and services, as well as kindly and patiently supplying answers to a long, long list of questions.
Theodore Maynard’s 1919 compilation of historical drinking songs.
Samantha Millburn and the team at Covenant for tireless hard work, attention to detail, and a love of story that shines in every book they produce.
Pam Victorio and Bob Diforio, an incomparable team and the greatest support an author could hope for.
Annette Lyon and Luisa Perkins for Tuesdays.
Ginny Miller for proofreads and supportive feedback.
Liz Swick for keeping things running behind the scenes.
Paul, Jonathan, and Katherine for being the best.
Chapter One
Nottinghamshire, England
October 1816
According to his brothers, Harold Jonquil was born a vicar. And when one was born something, one learned to act well the part.
He stood outside the church doors, as he did every Sunday, offering the appropriate nods of acknowledgment to his parishioners as they left, pretending as though interacting with dozens upon dozens of people didn’t take every drop of reserved energy he had. He didn’t struggle to interact with people as much as his brother Corbin did, but it was still a battle. He never entirely knew what to say, falling back again and again on an authoritative recitation of scripture or sermons, hoping no one would realize how inept he really was. That near-constant uncertainty was exhausting.
He accepted the various comments on his sermon, whether expressions of praise or criticism, with solemnity. He neither smiled nor frowned; a vicar, he had come to learn, was meant to be a study in neutrality, ever calm, ever rational, ever dependable.
Ever exhausted.
Ever boring.
His oldest brother, Philip, stepped from the church. Philip had been born to be an earl, yet no one could convincingly argue that he fit that mold at all. He was flamboyant to the point of absurdity, his mannerisms so overdone that he was rendered rather ridiculous, and not the least interested in hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral mask. Philip’s behavior inspired annoyance in at least one of their brothers. Why was it earls could fill their roles in nearly any way they chose but vicars could not?
Philip’s wife, Sorrel, walked at his side, one arm through his and the other firmly gripping her cane. She had suffered horrific injuries in an accident many years earlier. Though efforts had been made to restore some of her mobility and to relieve the constant pain she endured, she was not, and likely never would be, truly whole.
She had often been absent from services over the past year. Sorrel had endured two very difficult and ultimately heartbreaking pregnancies and was in the midst of another, though few beyond the family knew as much. Her already fragile body was struggling. Not to mention the house party at Lampton Park, the family seat, about six weeks earlier. The gathering had taken a toll on Sorrel, one from which she hadn’t recovered. Indeed, she seemed to be struggling more.
“I am pleased to have you here this week, Sorrel.” Harold offered a dip of his head. He’d found over the years that it served as a good general gesture, one suitable to most any occasion, and it saved him the difficulty of trying to think of the correct thing to do when he was already worn down.
“I do hope you mean to bestow a blessing on our heads, Your Grace.” Philip bowed deeply from the waist, addressing Harold in the way one would an archbishop.
Harold’s older brothers were forever doing that: making sport of his adherence to the protocols of his profession and insinuating that he had excruciatingly lofty goals, when, in actuality, his only true aim was to not be a complete failure.
“You are more deserving of a curse,” Sorrel told her husband in her usual tone of mingled amusement and impatience. She loved her husband—no one who spent any amount of time with the two of them could doubt that—but she, of all the people in the world, allowed Philip the least leverage for ridiculousness. She was, thus, one of Harold’s favorite people.
Despite Philip’s mocking, Harold maintained his equanimity, as always. “Do send word if any of your tenants or any member of your household has need of me. I will, of course, do all I can to discover those needs on my own.”
This was the relationship a vicar was meant to have with the finer families in his parish. Doing one’s duty as a man of the church required open communication with all in the area. His request was met with the usual response: Philip rolled his eyes, and Sorrel promised to tell Harold of anything he ought to know.
They made their way up through the churchyard. Harold watched their progress, concerned for his sister-in-law. As vicar, he ought to be helping in some way, but he didn’t know how. He wasn’t a doctor. He could offer thoughts from holy writ or writings of various religious scholars, but he had found over the past year that she was not comforted by that.
Mr. Pearsely, who had been the vicar in the years Harold had grown up in this neighborhood, had been a calming influence, serene and composed. When he had visited the Park after Father’s death, Mr. Pearsely had brought with him a degree of peace no one else had. Harold had watched that influence transform Mater, calm her, comfort her. A vicar was meant to be a source of tranquility. Harold wanted to be that in the lives of the people he served, but inwardly, he was often in turmoil, stumbling his way through his life’s calling.
Philip and Sorrel were the last to leave the church. Harold’s duties were complete for the moment. He closed the chapel and made his way toward the nearby vicarage with neither haste nor sloth.
A few of the area children ran around the road, laughing and calling to each other. They paused in their game as he passed.
“Good afternoon, children,” he said with a dip of his head.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jonquil,” they answered almost in unison.
Behind him, he heard their playing resume. If only joining in a game of chase were considered appropriate for a man of his profession. He liked to run but didn’t get to very often. And children could be endlessly amusing. He stepped up the narrow footpath leadin
g to his humble front door. He’d often thought of adding flowers to the path, perhaps a larger shade tree to allow the parlor window a bit of reprieve from the afternoon sun. But the vicarage itself had suffered neglect under the previous vicar. He needed to see to repairs and upkeep before spending his minimal funds on expenses that were comparatively frivolous. If only the course of study at university had focused a bit more on the financial and temporal aspects of this profession, then Harold might have had a better idea how to juggle it all.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the narrow entryway. The arched passage beyond framed the equally narrow stairwell lit by sunshine spilling in from a generously proportioned picture window at the first landing. The same arching detail framed the four doors leading off the open space at the foot of the stairs. It was not a large home nor a fine one, but there was something very pleasing in its detailed simplicity. Once he had addressed the peeling plaster and cracked windows, the fireplaces that smoked, and the roof that leaked no matter how often he patched it, the home would be nearly perfect.
The aroma of Mrs. Dalton’s beef stew filled the house. His housekeeper was a gift from heaven itself. She cooked mouthwatering meals on a thin budget. She did not object to the sparse second-hand furnishings and out-of-date decorations he had inherited from his predecessor, nor the drafty, neglected spaces. Best of all, she was not a gossip.
Harold plucked his hat from his head and tossed it on the hat rack. His outercoat joined it. He stepped into the spill of sunlight from the window. Eyes closed, he took a deep breath, filling himself with the sounds and smells of this house that had so quickly become home to him. He pulled off his jacket and hung it over one arm, then unbuttoned the cuffs at each wrist. Much better. Once he had money enough, he meant to have shirts made that didn’t constrict his arms so severely. Enduring the starched collars and cravats was bad enough.
This vicarage was small compared to the parsonages and vicarages in which several of Harold’s classmates at Cambridge now lived. He didn’t mind. The living was a comfortable one, or would be once he’d set the house to rights. How did vicars with smaller livings than his ever afford even the most basic care of their homes? Surely there had to be a better approach. He only hoped that years from now, when all was set to rights, he might have income enough, if he were fortunate, to raise a family of his own, provided they were frugal. And it was the living his late father had hoped would be his. Living and working here had always been part of the plan for him.
The tiny kitchen sat just to the right of the stairwell. He could hear Mrs. Dalton working inside. Interacting with the entire parish every Sunday after services was draining, but the time he spent one-on-one with Mrs. Dalton filled him again. She was a joy. He bit down a smile as he began whistling a tune he’d learned during his early years at university.
He leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorframe and sang gustily to the closed door.
“Some people think distill-e-ry drink
Is wholesome, neat, and sheer,
But I will contend to my life’s end,
There’s nothing to tipple like beer.”
From inside the kitchen, Mrs. Dalton laughed heartily. She pulled the door open and, to Harold’s surprised delight, took up the chorus.
“For I likes a little good beer;
And I will contend
To my life’s end,
There’s nothing to tipple like beer.”
“You know that one,” Harold said with a grin. “I was so certain you wouldn’t have heard it.”
“Your knowledge of tavern songs is very extensive.” She motioned him into the kitchen. “But so is mine.”
“It’s not the most vicarly of repertoires,” he admitted.
Mrs. Dalton lowered her voice and spoke conspiratorially. “I like it. I’d not want you to actually be a tippler, and I know for certain that you’re not, but it’s a fine thing being able to be a bit absurd now and then.”
Absurdity was something in which a vicar ought not indulge. But in the privacy of his home, with only his dear, discreet housekeeper as witness, he could allow it and enjoy it.
He laid his coat over an obliging stool. “One of these days, my dear Mrs. Dalton, I will find one you haven’t heard before.”
She pointed her wooden spoon at him. “You’ve not managed that in all the time I’ve been here.”
He snatched up a hot currant bun from the worktable. “I know an awful lot of drinking songs,” he warned her. “This challenge could last decades.”
She crossed to the fire, where the pot of stew simmered. “I grew up in a tavern, Mr. Jonquil. I doubt there’s a ditty I haven’t heard.” She ladled a bowl of stew and handed it to him. “Carry it to the dining room, and eat there like you have manners.”
He held the bowl near his chin and sipped his stew. “What if I’d rather stay in here and sing inappropriate songs with you?”
She snapped a kitchen towel at him. “Behave.”
Harold winked at her and took another spoonful. “Heavenly, Mrs. Dalton. Absolutely heavenly.”
“Having a vicar declare my cooking heavenly! Now, that’s a fine thing.” She turned back to her work a moment before a knock echoed off the front door.
“Ah, lud.” It was a rather unvicar-like word, but the most appropriate one for the occasion. He was jacketless. His sleeves hung open. His cravat loose. He was eating in the kitchen, standing up, having challenged his housekeeper to a competition involving songs about liquor.
“Act well your part; there all the honor lies.” Father had said that so often when Harold was young that it was etched on his very soul.
Act well your part. Harold was doing a poor job of it at the moment.
“I’ll answer the door,” Mrs. Dalton said. “You set yourself to rights.”
“Thank you.” He left his bowl on the worktable, grabbed his jacket, and hurried into his study directly across from the kitchen, snapping the door closed behind him.
A small circular mirror hung beside the door. He used it to straighten his cravat. He buttoned his waistcoat, then smoothed it once more. He buttoned his cuffs, inwardly groaning at how uncomfortable they were. He pulled his jacket on and tugged it into place. A quick adjustment to his hair made him entirely presentable.
He took a quick breath, then stepped into the open area at the foot of the staircase, preparing himself to present an image of easy and dignified interaction.
Mrs. Dalton was only just closing the door. No one had come inside.
Harold passed under the arch and joined her in the narrow entryway. “Do we not have a visitor after all?” He didn’t manage to entirely hide his relief.
“A note’s come from the Park.” She held out a folded bit of parchment.
Leave it to Philip to wreak havoc on Harold’s life even from afar.
He took the note and opened it.
Your Eminence,
At least he hadn’t addressed it to “Holy Harry.” All Harold’s brothers had been calling him that for years. He hated it, and he didn’t actually hate many things.
I write to you with news of great significance and possible concern. I also write with a question of a deep spiritual nature.
Harold doubted that.
Speaking hypothetically, if word were to reach me that visitors to the neighborhood are soon to arrive and I am absolutely certain their arrival will cause our otherwise stoic vicar to have a stroke, is it my spiritual duty as the patron of this parish to inform the archbishop before or after I break the news of our vicar’s tragic demise to the poor gentleman’s mother?
Philip never did do anything in the most efficient, direct, or somber manner.
“Have you heard of any new arrivals in the neighborhood?” he asked Mrs. Dalton.
She shook her head. “’Course, I don’t spend my time chatting with the gossipy wom
en in town.”
He returned to the note, hoping Philip eventually got to the point.
Further, if my very welcoming family wishes to have the new arrivals to dinner soon after they return to the area and I extend an invitation to the vicar to join in the friendly gathering and he subsequently dies, would his death be an eternal mark on my soul? I only ask because watching our vicar topple over at the sight of the very person who shoved him into a nearby stream years ago might be worth the exchange.
Harold’s heart stopped.
Please advise as to my best course of action for being both entertained and secure in my already shaky claim to salvation.
Yrs. etc.
Ph.
The person who shoved him into a nearby stream.
Harold knew precisely who the expected visitors were. His heart dropped to his shoes. He attempted to swallow past the lump suddenly forming in his throat.
Sarah Sarvol had, years earlier, during a previous visit to the neighborhood, sent him toppling into the rock-filled tributary. That was the last time he’d seen her but certainly not the last time he’d thought of her. Until that horrible day, she’d been his dearest friend, his closest confidante. More than that, she had been and still was the only woman he had ever loved.
Sarah Sarvol. He wasn’t the least ready to see her again. He doubted he ever would be.
* * *
Liverpool
Sarah was in England for the first time in years. The familiar smells and sounds and chaos of Liverpool enveloped her as she walked at her brother’s side along the docks. Her legs were grateful to be back on solid ground again after weeks at sea. Her heart soared higher with each passing moment.
I am back to stay. She had lived most of her life in America, but this felt like home. If she tried to explain the pull to anyone, she would most certainly fail. It was indescribable but undeniable. She and her brother, Scott, were relocating to England permanently, but home to Mother would always be America.
As the press of people on the dock grew closer, more tumultuous, Scott took hold of Sarah’s arm. “Don’t want you wandering off again.”
The Heart of a Vicar Page 1
