The Heart of a Vicar

by Sarah M. Eden

  They reached the top of the stairwell. Sarah was motioned through another small door. It was a very good thing she was not a terribly tall person. The room that lay beyond the doorway was small, but it did not appear to be a bedchamber. A fireplace blackened by years of use sat against one wall. The opposite wall could not have been more than ten steps from it. At the far end was a small window, through which shone a shaft of much-needed sunlight.

  “What room is this?” she asked.

  “Some of the governesses have used it as a dressing room or a sewing room. One even had a small table and chair placed inside and took her meals here rather than in the nursery.”

  Sarah’s heart dropped a bit. “Am I expected to take my meals here?”

  “No, Miss Sarvol, though you certainly may if you wish.” She motioned through a doorway on the adjacent wall. “Your bedchamber is through here.”

  Sarah moved warily across the threshold. The chamber beyond was finer than she had anticipated upon hearing “governess’s rooms” and after seeing the tiny sewing and dressing room. It was nicely proportioned for a bedchamber that belonged to neither the master nor the mistress. The blue silk hanging on the walls, a very light, soothing shade, was a bit worn but was still in good condition. The fireplace was larger in the bedchamber than in the room she’d just passed through. It would offer much-appreciated warmth during the cold English nights.

  “There is not a lot of furniture in this room,” Mrs. Tanner acknowledged, “and none of it is new, but you should have all the necessities.”

  The necessities. That was a very good descriptor for the decorating style in these two rooms. A bed. A changing table. A bedside table. A clothespress. There was nothing else, not even a chair. The walls were even bare. The little adjoining room had been entirely empty.

  A maid set Sarah’s portmanteau and hat boxes on the floor beside the clothespress. A footman came in close on her heels with Sarah’s traveling trunk.

  “I haven’t a lady’s maid,” she told Mrs. Tanner. “My mother judged it best that one be obtained here.”

  “I’ll make certain a maid is available to help where needed until Mr. Sarvol approves the hiring of a lady’s maid.”

  That likely wouldn’t take too long. Though Uncle Sarvol had lived alone for a long time and had probably all but forgotten about abigails, the demands of a lady’s toilette, and the impossible nature of a lady dressing herself in the complicated fashions of the day, a lady’s maid was considered a necessity. Once he was made aware of the lack, all would be seen to.

  She was soon alone in her sparse and quiet bedchamber. It was not ideal, but it was hers. She would make adjustments over time, making it more and more her own. And as soon as Scott was able to accompany her, a gentleman being necessary for the earliest visits, she fully meant to begin finding her place in the neighborhood as well.

  “This is going to be perfect.” Speaking the words out loud made it seem more possible. “It’ll be just perfect.”

  Chapter Three

  Harold had lived in the vicarage for more than a year and, in that time, had never once been invited to dinner at Lampton Park when his mother wasn’t in residence, despite his house sitting very near the Park, it being tied to the estate.

  He wasn’t offended—vicars ought never to be offended—but he was shocked when an invitation arrived to join his oldest brothers for a family dinner later that week. Mater had been in Shropshire for more than a month.

  If Philip and Layton were requesting his presence without being forced to by Mater, it could mean only one of two things: either he was needed in his clerical capacity, or they meant to torture him. He might not mind so much that they heckled and tormented him if he could be at all certain they at least liked him.

  He whistled as he went down the stairs. The days were growing shorter. The light spilling through the stained-glass window on the first landing grew dimmer earlier. Soon he would have to decide how many additional candles he could use without being indulgent or frivolous. A vicar should be frugal, after all. There were so many things a vicar ought to be.

  “I know that tune,” Mrs. Dalton called out from the kitchen.

  He peeked his head in. “I wasn’t issuing a challenge this time; I simply cannot get that ditty out of my head.”

  She rocked slowly in her chair by the low-burning fire. “You ought to suggest the choir sing it for mass on Sunday.”

  His heart clutched a moment at the thought. Mrs. Dalton didn’t mind his idiosyncrasies, but if anyone else knew of them . . . Act well your part. “I likely should try harder to fill my mind with hymns instead. I’d be far less strange if I did.”

  “Strange ain’t a bad thing.”

  When one meant to dedicate his life to being a respectable vicar, strange was a bad thing indeed. “Speaking of strange,” he said, “I likely should be on my way to my brother’s home.”

  Mrs. Dalton quietly laughed. “The young earl is unique, isn’t he?”

  “He is, indeed.”

  “Before you go, there’s something needing attention that’s too high for me to reach.” She rose from her chair and motioned him back into the open area at the foot of the stairs. “This one will be a challenge.”

  “You said that last time.”

  She pointed to a high corner above the stairs. “We’ve a cobweb I can’t get wiped up, and it’s driving me mad.”

  He eyed the offending cobweb as well as the surrounding area. There was no way to place a ladder in the right location, neither did he have access to one that would be tall enough. Standing on a chair didn’t work well in the middle of a staircase. Besides, chairs and ladders were incredibly uninteresting ways to accomplish the thing.

  “I told you it would be a challenge,” Mrs. Dalton said.

  “I accept.” He pulled off his jacket and hung it on the newel post. “I’ll need a dust rag.”

  She pulled one from the pocket of her apron and handed it to him. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Jonquil.”

  He struck an overly confident mien. “I don’t need luck; I have skill.”

  “You also have a house neglected by its previous owner. Don’t think I’m not aware you’ve nearly spent yourself into the parish poorhouse making repairs here.”

  That was decidedly true, but he had no desire to dampen the excitement of the moment with those concerns. “I’ve tested the sturdiness of these things often enough to know they’re sure.” He took the steps two at a time, studying the cobweb above. At the first turn in the staircase, he began planning his route. The sill beneath the stain-glassed window. The banister. The lip of the wainscoting. He could manage this.

  He unbuckled and slipped off his black leather shoes. They were decades out of date but had been left in the house by the previous occupant and, in a fortuitous turn of fate, fit him. He’d been surviving on a curate’s income. Even now, as a vicar with an old and damaged vicarage, he was watching every penny. If only a clergyman’s income were adjusted to account for the expenses incurred in the upkeep of the vicarage. Still, somehow, others managed it. So Harold kept his struggles and frustrations to himself, determined to prove to the world—and to himself—that he was capable of bearing the burdens of this position.

  He set his shoes in the corner of the landing. They worked well enough for making calls and seeing to duties, but he’d found over the years that given the choice between climbing in his bare feet or climbing in his inflexible shoes, he did best to choose the former. He tucked his stockings into the shoes and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation, then he tossed Mrs. Dalton a look of eager anticipation. “This is the best part.”

  “Taking your shoes off?” She liked to tease him about this oddity of his.

  Truth be told, he had a lot of them.

  “Climbing.”

  He tucked the cleaning rag into the front of his waistcoat.
With the tips of his fingers on the lip of the window and his toes on the sill, he pulled himself up. He set his other foot against the banister as he repositioned his hands to better hold himself. With quick, careful movements, he shifted one foot from the banister to the lip of the wainscoting. He kept the fingertips of one hand firmly gripping the top of the window. He laid his thumb over his fingers, pressing down on his fingernails to help keep the pads of his fingers in place despite the narrowness of the window frame. With the other hand, he pulled out the dust rag and stretched upward. A swipe made short work of the offending cobweb.

  Harold made a quick assessment of the area directly below him, then hopped back onto the landing and spun about to offer a bow.

  “You must have caused your mother no end of anxiety, climbing about like that.”

  He laughed as he sat on the nearest step and snatched up his shoes. “She wasn’t privy to most of my climbing adventures. When I was little, I was considered a very valuable member of what we termed the ‘Jonquil Freers of Prisoners,’ a scheme we brothers concocted to help each other escape the nursery when our governess or tutors were punishing us.”

  “You helped your brothers break rules?” Mrs. Dalton pretended to be horrified. Nothing actually shocked the woman. “Perhaps you weren’t born a vicar after all.”

  Perhaps not. What would his parishioners, his family think if they knew that though he managed to be the vicar he was supposed to be when undertaking his duties, he couldn’t seem to help indulging in his undignified oddities when he was within these walls?

  Harold had his stockings and shoes on once more. He walked down the stairs to where Mrs. Dalton stood and offered her the rag he’d used.

  “You’d best pop your jacket on again, Mr. Jonquil. You’ve a family supper awaiting you.”

  It would be unvicarly of him to admit that he wasn’t looking forward to it. Of all the members of his family, only Mater never laughed at him or mocked his efforts to be a proper and respectable vicar. She wouldn’t be there to stop his brothers from mercilessly tormenting him.

  “Don’t fret, sir,” Mrs. Dalton said. “If the evening proves too miserable, you can always climb out a window.”

  “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” He made his way under the arch leading to the front door, steeling his resolve to endure whatever lay ahead.

  From behind him, Mrs. Dalton said, “Thank you for vanquishing the cobweb. I never could have reached it.”

  “I enjoyed doing it, though I shouldn’t have.”

  “Why not?”

  He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Vicars aren’t meant to scale walls.” Or dread spending time with their families, he silently added. Or go about with rowdy songs in their heads. Or wish they could tuck themselves away instead of being out among people all the time. Or dread standing before the congregation to deliver a sermon.

  The walk to Lampton Park was not an overly long one, and the weather was fine. He had ample time to settle his thoughts and firm his resolve. Philip and Layton would be obnoxious—they always were—but he would remain unruffled.

  By the time the Lampton Park butler showed Harold into the drawing room, he had summoned the look of mingled concern and contentment he’d practiced for so many years. He’d learned to exude calmness of mind and certainty of purpose whether or not he felt it.

  His two oldest brothers and their wives were in the drawing room already. Layton stood beside Philip near the fireplace. Marion, Layton’s wife, sat on a sofa beside Sorrel. Layton and Marion’s children would not, it seemed, be joining them. Philip wore his usual dandified attire, but the others had also dressed quite formally for what Harold had assumed was a simple family dinner.

  Marion spotted him first. In typical fashion, she welcomed him warmly and energetically.

  Philip was quick to seize control of the discussion. “I hope you’ve not come with a sermon already in mind,” he said. “I have a brilliant idea for a topic.”

  Layton bit back a laugh.

  Harold refused to be nettled. “I have no intention of sermonizing at a dinner.”

  “What, not even a quoted psalm or an expounded-upon bit of holy writ?” Philip asked in theatrical shock.

  “You had best send for Dr. Scorseby,” Layton said. “I think Harold might be ill.”

  This was the point when Sorrel usually told them to be nice. But she sat silently beside Marion. She wore a look of pain Harold had seen on her face too many times.

  He ignored his brothers and moved closer to her. “How are you this evening, Sorrel?” He wanted to ask after her well-being in greater detail, but there was a fine line between showing concern and being nosy. He never could be sure how to manage the thing. Erring on the side of caution had always seemed best, but he worried it made him seem insincere in his inquiries.

  “I am sorely tempted to summon a footman to carry me in to dinner rather than walking there myself,” Sorrel said.

  Philip immediately moved toward her. “You’re feeling that poorly? Scorseby said if things grew worse, you would need to be off your feet for the remainder of—”

  “Do not get fussy, Philip. You know I cannot bear it when you get fussy.”

  His look of concern only grew. “I have reason to be fussy. We both know how very risky this is and the difficulties you are facing.”

  “Not now, Philip.” Sorrel’s whisper was tense and insistent. “Let us try to enjoy the evening.”

  Marion had taken hold of her hand and patted it reassuringly. “Take heart, Sorrel. Philip will be off to Shropshire in the morning, and I solemnly vow not to be the least bit fussy while he’s gone.”

  Harold turned his attention to his oldest brother. “You are to be away?”

  Philip nodded a touch too solemnly. “And I hope you will offer your most heartfelt prayers for my safe journey.”

  “I always do.”

  Philip laughed. Why did he always laugh? Harold was forever the object of his brothers’ ridicule. It was disheartening.

  “It seems our dear Arabella and young Lieutenant Lancaster mean to make things between them more permanent,” Philip said. “I’ve been given the honor of standing in for our father, whom she would have asked, were he alive, to stand in for hers.”

  Arabella Hampton had grown up in the neighborhood, alongside them all. She was something of an adopted sister to the brothers and had served as Mater’s companion for some time now. She was to have her own happy ending, it seemed.

  “Will Mater be returning after the ceremony?” Harold asked. He missed his mother.

  Philip nodded. “And we mean to haul back Charlie’s battered and beaten body as well. So if you could prepare a eulogy, that would be helpful.”

  “Why must you be so morbid?” Marion asked in tones of horror. “His broken bones are nearly healed now. You make it sound as though he is a lifeless heap.”

  “I’m not entirely convinced that isn’t what I will find when I get there,” Philip said. “Mater may have been lying to us all these weeks.”

  “She hasn’t been,” Harold said.

  All their eyes were on him after that pronouncement.

  “Have you developed the second sight?” Philip asked. “How very pagan of you.”

  “It’s more likely he had a revelation from on high,” Layton said. “That is the way of things when one is treading the path toward sainthood.”

  Those two were insufferable when they were feeding off each other’s absurdity.

  “I wrote to the vicar of that parish,” Harold said. “He has kept me apprised of Charlie’s recovery.”

  Some of the jesting melted from Philip’s expression. “And you didn’t think to share with us the information you were receiving?”

  “Dr. Scorseby made a very thorough report when he returned,” Harold reminded them. “We all knew perfectly well that Charli
e was recovering.”

  Layton’s gaze narrowed on him, not in anger but curiosity. “What did you learn from this vicar?”

  “That Charlie’s spirits were a bit dampened by the experience but that he was recovering well. That Mater’s presence improved his outlook. That Mr. Lancaster was not neglecting him. And that prayers for Charlie ought to focus on his patience during the recovery as he was not in danger of succumbing to his injuries.”

  “For future reference, Harry,” Philip said, the annoyance in his expression reflected in his tone, “this additional information would have been appreciated, as the rest of us, not gifted with a personal messenger service from the church, have been doing a great deal of guessing these past weeks.”

  He could have shared what his colleague had passed along, but his efforts would have yielded only laughter, mockery, and, inevitably, dismissal. He knew the pattern too well by now to not anticipate it.

  “What time did you tell our guests to arrive?” Sorrel asked Philip. “If I am to sit through a long and, no doubt, prosy meal, I would prefer to begin sooner rather than later.”

  Guests?

  Philip was focused on his wife once more. “If you aren’t feeling equal to—”

  Her stern look stopped him midsentence. He held his hands up in a show of surrender and turned away. There was not often tension between the couple, but Harold had seen hints of it lately.

  Approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor. The house was large enough that the arrival of carriages was not always audible. The mysterious guests had, it seemed, arrived. Sorrel would be granted her “sooner rather than later” request after all.

  Harold slipped a bit away from the others. This was not his home, and thus, it wasn’t for him to greet new arrivals. He’d found in the time since taking over parish duties that keeping to quiet corners while his more prestigious family members undertook their duties worked best for everyone. He could have a moment’s respite from the mask his duties required he wear, and they would forget about him long enough not to pick at him.