Sorrel allowed Philip to help her stand. The brace that had been fashioned for her shattered hip had necessitated a change in her wardrobe to dresses that fit very loosely through the middle. The cut meant that most people likely could not tell that she was pregnant, though she was far enough along that if not for the design of her gowns, it would have been obvious.
Harold had been told early on by Mater, not because he was family but because he was the vicar and the outcome of this pregnancy was likely to be as devastating as the last two. He needed to be prepared to perform the various rites, should the child live long enough for him to do so, and to be on hand should Sorrel not survive the ordeal.
He understood the what of his duties should the worst occur, but the how of comforting, calming, and reassuring felt horribly elusive. Mr. Pearsely would have known how. So would Father have. Harold had far less confidence in himself.
Layton tucked Marion’s arm through his and joined his older brother at a proper distance from the drawing room door, ready to greet whomever had been invited.
Why hadn’t Philip told him this was more than just family? Harold didn’t mind interacting with people, but he appreciated warning. Their brother Corbin was always afforded that kindness. Harold needed it as well. Vicars weren’t supposed to wish people to Hades, but there were times when being around people was just too much and he found himself doing exactly that.
Patience is a virtue. Endurance is a necessity.
The butler stepped inside and announced the new arrivals. “Mr. Scott Sarvol and Miss Sarvol, of Sarvol House.”
The air in Harold’s lungs turned solid. Sarah. Merciful heavens. Sarah is here. Sarah.
How was that possible? He’d heard for the first time on Sunday that she was expected. Why had word not reached him that she and her brother were in the neighborhood now?
Philip had planned an ambush. Harold’s oldest brother had missed his calling; he ought to have been Wellington’s right-hand man. They’d have ended the war with Napoleon far sooner but with far less dignity.
The butler stepped aside, clearing the doorway. Time slowed. Harold’s heart pounded in pained anticipation. Years had passed since last he’d seen her, yet he could clearly picture her in his mind. Dark hair pulled up in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Golden-brown eyes eagerly taking in all the world around her. A pert, upturned nose he had once, to her horror, described as adorable. She had, those long years ago, been the most tenderly pretty girl he’d ever known. She was likely now an unparalleled beauty.
Two shadows crossed the threshold, then stepped inside the drawing room. Harold spared only the briefest glance for Scott before his eyes found Sarah and refused to wander from the sight of her.
His brother Stanley’s wife had been declared a diamond by Society during her Season. Athena Windover, who had attended Mater’s house party a few weeks earlier, was praised in much the same way. Sarah Sarvol made them look dowdy by comparison. Perhaps it was simply that Harold had always found brunettes more attractive. Perhaps it was his younger self remembering how very much he had loved her.
Curse Philip and Layton, arranging this without giving him the least warning.
The six of them exchanged formal greetings, Harold keeping himself at a distance, trying to settle his thoughts.
Philip swung his quizzing glass on its ribbon, a sure sign he was about to undertake something ridiculous. “I know it’s been a few years, but I’m certain you both remember the second-to-youngest of us.”
He turned toward Harold. So did everyone else.
Drat.
He braced himself, forcing the calm neutrality he’d worked so hard to present over the years. Inwardly, he shook. How he hoped he wouldn’t be expected to speak. Everyone would hear the trembling in his voice.
“I do remember him,” Sarah said pleasantly enough, with no indication that seeing him again affected her at all or even really mattered much.
“Welcome back to the neighborhood.” Harold hadn’t the first idea how he managed the sentence whole with only the slightest catch in his voice.
Sarah Sarvol. At Lampton Park. His mind couldn’t seem to reconcile it.
Sarah simply nodded and turned back to face the others. “It is good to see you, Layton,” she said.
Layton’s brow creased. His lips turned down, not in anger but something far closer to sadness. “You look so much like Bridget,” he said quietly.
Sarah clasped her hands in front of her, glancing at her brother, then Philip. No one said anything. Harold didn’t know what could be said after that observation. Bridget was Layton’s late wife, who’d died tragically young shortly after their daughter had been born. Sarah was her cousin.
Layton hadn’t looked away. “She was about your age when—” He cleared his throat. The hint of a smile he offered was stiff and forced. “Sarah, this is Lady Marion Jonquil, my wife.”
Sarah pulled in a sharp breath. “You’ve married?” She sounded both amazed and overjoyed. “Oh, Layton. I’m so very happy.”
She threw her arms around him. For a moment, Layton looked shocked. But just as quickly, his expression lightened, and he returned her embrace. He looked at Marion and mouthed, “Americans.” Marion grinned in response.
Sarah had once embraced Harold with that same jubilant enthusiasm. He had nearly collapsed from the shock of it. That moment along the banks of the Trent was still one of his favorite memories. He thought of it often.
“Release our poor cousin, Sarah.” Scott laughed out loud, shaking his head. “Uncle Sarvol’s warnings obviously fell on deaf ears.”
Philip watched him with curiosity and asked the very question hovering in Harold’s thoughts. “What were his warnings?”
Sarah pulled away from her unexpected embrace, grinning from ear to ear. “He said I was to make particularly sure that I set aside my American manners and summon, instead, a more proper English mien. He seemed entirely convinced I wasn’t capable of it.”
Philip tapped a finger on his chin, eyeing Layton with immense curiosity. “Now, what would give him that impression?”
She wasn’t the least offended. Harold remembered well that aspect of her personality. She was one of the happiest and most optimistic people he’d ever known.
“Uncle Sarvol also issued a warning to Scott.” She tossed her brother a teasing look. “He said we would be dining tonight with the most influential family in all of Nottinghamshire, and one of the most important in the kingdom.”
“What warning came along with that pronouncement?” Philip was clearly enjoying the conversation.
Scott answered. “I was told to make absolutely certain I did nothing to convince any of you that I am an idiot, as that would reflect poorly on the Sarvol family.”
Sarah returned to her brother’s side and slipped her arm through his. “So, Scott will do his best to suppress any idiotic tendencies he has, and I will attempt to be less American than my accent would indicate I am, and we will hope for the best.”
A grin split Marion’s face. “Oh, I do like you, Sarah Sarvol. We are going to get along excellently.”
“I suspect we will.”
Sorrel leaned in closer to Philip. “I need to sit down, dear.”
In a flash, Philip had the butler announce dinner and then moved quickly and carefully from the drawing room, Sorrel holding fast to his arm and her walking stick. Layton walked hand in hand with Marion. Sarah kept her arm through Scott’s.
They all left, not one of them noticing Harold had been left behind. The moment Sarah slipped from sight, he pushed out the breath he’d been struggling with.
For years, he’d wondered what would happen if he ever came face-to-face with Sarah again. She had been crying the last time he had seen her. It was an image he’d not been able to entirely clear from his thoughts, despite the passage of so much time. He’d worried s
he would still be hurt or angry. He’d played out this moment in his mind so often. Would she rage at him? Laugh? Would she cry again?
The reality of their reunion was both worse and far better than what he’d imagined. She hadn’t more than glanced at him. She’d hardly noticed him there, and she certainly hadn’t seemed burdened by memories of what had transpired between them. She was fine.
He swallowed against an unexpected lump in his throat.
She was fine.
Why, then, did he feel as though he would never be fully fine again?
Chapter Four
Harold Jonquil had changed. Sitting in the church, listening to his sermon on Sunday, she knew there was something fundamentally different about him. The alteration went beyond the fact that he was taller than he’d been when last she’d seen him, which was saying something, considering he was a Jonquil and Jonquils were known for being noticeably tall. It was also more than his being grown up now rather than being nearly so. It was more than how withdrawn he’d been during dinner at Lampton Park.
Something was different in his expression, in the way he held himself. He had always been more private and quiet than most would guess, but now he was distant. Aloof.
But it was more even than that. He was not the same person. She didn’t know how else to describe what she was seeing.
He had told her often of his desire to join the clergy and have a parish of his own. He’d spoken of building people’s faith, of touching their lives, of doing good in the world. He had not necessarily been eloquent in those long-ago, very personal discussions, but he had been passionate. There was no fervor in his words or expression now. Not an ounce of it.
What happened to you, Harold Jonquil?
How many times had she told herself during the journey here that she would put him from her mind? He had rejected her thoroughly and soundly. Why, then, was the mere sight of him, changed as he was, enough to tug real regret and mourning from her heart?
Beside her, Scott struggled to stay awake. Uncle Sarvol, on his other side, had been asleep for long minutes. Few in the congregation seemed to truly be listening. That was not entirely unusual, even when the sermon was delivered with feeling and ardor, but this was not the way she had imagined Harold taking on the mantle he’d so long worked toward.
“I could make a difference,” he’d once said. “I won’t have a title or a place in the government. I won’t have a say in the law or the movement of armies. But the things I do each day will have a real impact on real people living real lives. It will matter.”
Why, then, did it not seem to matter any longer? He almost looked bored.
Perhaps part of her grief grew from the fact that she shared those dreams he’d spoken of. She too wished to do good in the lives of the people around her. Serving and helping, touching people, changing the world in small but real ways had defined her longed-for future as well. It was still what she wanted. He seemed to have lost that fervor.
A few pews ahead and across the middle walkway, Layton’s little girl, Caroline, whom Sarah hadn’t seen since she was a baby, craned her neck enough to look back at Sarah. She must be six years old by now.
Caroline twisted so she faced fully backward, then curled her fingers around the back of her pew and rested her chin on top of her hands. She smiled at Sarah, a little shyly, a little hopefully. The girl had not been at Lampton Park for the dinner Sarah and Scott had taken there. Though Sarah knew her, she was likely a complete stranger to the sweet little girl.
Caroline’s thick golden curls and bright-blue eyes declared her a Jonquil as little else could. But the child had her mother’s small, upturned nose and all-encompassing smile. Seeing her, Sarah missed her cousin. Bridget, despite being eight years her senior, had been dear to her, a combination of older sister, beloved friend, and desperately needed confidante.
Layton noticed his daughter’s distraction. He twisted a bit as well to see what had so captured her attention. His eyes fell on Sarah. She couldn’t say if his smile was one of apology or tempered censure. He nudged his daughter forward-facing once more. The movement caught Lady Marion’s attention. She, with a little bundle of her own resting against her shoulder, one remarkably well-behaved despite being at the usually disruptive age of somewhere between one and two years old, glanced back at Sarah as well.
Sarah mouthed an apology and received a bright smile in return, one that set her mind at ease. Layton had been as open and kind and dear to her as Bridget had been during every visit Sarah had made to Nottinghamshire, except for the last one. Bridget had died shortly before then. Layton had still been deeply in mourning. He’d seen no one, spoken to no one.
The slightest pause in the droning on of Harold’s sermon caught Sarah’s attention. She glanced at the pulpit. He had, in fact, paused and was, to her horror, looking at her. She wasn’t being disruptive. Indeed, she’d not made a sound. It was hardly her doing that Layton’s family had taken it in turns to look back at her.
Sarah folded her hands on her lap and lowered her eyes. Half the congregation was asleep. A good many of the younger congregants were squirming in their pews. Harold was making little to no attempt to capture anyone’s attention, let alone “build their faith” or “touch their lives.” She had sat perfectly quiet—and awake—through the entire thing, and he was lobbing a look of disapproval at her? It seemed Harold Jonquil was not done humiliating her; at least the misery he’d caused years earlier had been inflicted in private.
She didn’t look up again as he droned on. When the time came for communion, she kept to her pew. One ought not approach the vicar for so sacred a rite when one was having uncharitable thoughts about that vicar.
The congregants began filing out once the service was over. Sarah sat beside Scott, silently bristling. Years earlier, Harold would have shared a conspiratorial smile with her over something as inconsequential as a child shuffling about during services. He’d even spoken about his wish that Sunday mass be a little more personal and less dreary. Had he become precisely the kind of unapproachable, uncaring vicar he’d decried all those years ago? She hoped not. He might not have loved her in the end, but she had cared deeply for him. A part of her still did.
Scott leaned his head a touch closer to her. “Should we wake Uncle?”
“If we leave him here, I might be able to spend the remainder of the day somewhere other than my bedchamber.” Uncle had proven a bit too sharp-tongued; she had kept to her rooms much of the past two days.
Scott sighed. “I do not understand why he is so unkind to you. He was never this unwelcoming before.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Did you never wonder why I didn’t join you and the rest of the family for dinner when we visited in the past?”
His forehead creased. “You were too young.”
“I am only a year younger than you are, you dolt.”
He frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I was not forbidden from joining, but Father thought it best to not subject me to his brother’s unpredictable temper and propensity for insult. Bridget often joined me in the nursery. She was not unaware of the sort of person her father was, especially toward girls and young ladies. ‘He finds us a waste of time,’ she once explained. I preferred not to waste my time being treated that way, something Father convinced me was wise.”
A group of young women, likely somewhere near sixteen or seventeen years of age, passed by the pew, blushing deeply and staring openly at Scott. That had happened quite often over the years. Sarah found it endlessly entertaining. Scott, though certainly not vain, seemed to enjoy it as well.
He rose. “Good morning to you all.”
One of them spoke. “You have an accent.”
“On the contrary.” He flashed them a winning grin. “You are the one with an accent.”
Giggles and ever-broadening smiles followed.
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“Do you live here now?” another member of the group asked.
“I do.” He bowed a little.
The giggles grew almost frantic, and the girls undertook a swift departure.
“It is unfair to torture them, Scott,” she said. “Especially on a Sunday inside a church.”
“Nonsense. That was the most interesting thing that occurred in here all morning.”
Sarah rose, shaking her head in frustration. “I do not know what happened to Harold Jonquil. He never used to be a prosy bore. Quiet, yes, but not tedious.”
“People change, Sarah. It is one of the few unavoidable facts of life.” He glanced at their uncle. “Of course, some people simply become more of what they’ve always been.”
“More cantankerous, you mean?”
“More sleepy.” If any of his eager admirers had still been nearby, they might have actually swooned at the grin he tossed her. “Perhaps if we make enough noise, Uncle will wake on his own.”
It was worth trying. The chapel was very nearly empty. The last of the congregants were at the door, making their way outside. Sarah held her Book of Common Prayer out beside her and let it drop on its face to the flagstone floor. It landed with a thud that echoed off the stone walls and pillared, pointed archways. Uncle stirred a bit but didn’t awaken.
“I almost hate to wake him,” Scott said. “A fellow doesn’t get to nap that deeply very often.”
“Unless that fellow happens to live here, and then he is afforded the opportunity every Sunday.” Sarah had seen enough sleeping forms and not nearly enough surprise to tell her the sedative quality of the sermon was not new.
“Perhaps we could hire Morris dancers,” Scott suggested.
“To deliver the sermon?”
“No.” He laughed. “To wake our uncle. Though Morris dancers delivering a sermon would be exciting, and very English.”
“For all we know, exciting sermons might be outlawed in this country,” Sarah warned him, assuming a very stern tone. “You will get us stoned if you’re not careful.”
The Heart of a Vicar Page 4
