“So this person who complained,” Mrs. Dalton said, “can I know who it was?”
There seemed little harm in that. She wouldn’t go about whispering in everyone’s ears. And she might help him sort the whole mess out. “Miss Sarvol,” he said.
Her brow pulled in thought. “Mr. Sarvol’s niece who’s just come from America?”
He nodded. “She’s visited often over the years. We’re near enough the same age that we’ve known each other more or less all our lives.” He didn’t intend to speak of their attachment and tenderness during her last visit, nor confess to the kiss they’d shared and Sarah’s reaction to it. “She apparently has been unimpressed since returning.”
“Mere days ago,” Mrs. Dalton added drily.
“Yes.” Harold stood and paced away. “I pointed out that she hadn’t been here long enough to know how I was performing my duties. She was unmoved. Indeed, she went so far as to issue a challenge, insisting she could do better serving and tending and, outside of rites and such, being a vicar than I. I don’t know whether to be more upset, amused, or . . . or worried.”
Mrs. Dalton made a sound of pondering. He paused in his pacing to look at her.
“I think you ought to accept the challenge,” Mrs. Dalton said.
He laughed a little, mostly in exasperation. “I will do just as I told her I would: continue as I have since being made curate here and now vicar. She would soon see that I do a fine job despite her current doubts.”
Mrs. Dalton nodded.
“I am a good vicar.” The declaration sounded more like a question than he would have liked.
“You are,” she answered.
“Despite my propensity for drinking songs?” he pressed with a smile.
“The songs I can overlook. Climbing the walls like a spider . . . that’s a little less excusable.” That she grinned immediately afterward told him all he needed to know.
“You are a gem; do you know that?”
“I do.” She spoke with a firm confidence he wished he possessed. Too many years of being mockingly called “Holy Harry” had undermined his certainty in himself more than he cared to admit. “I believe good will come of this odd contest, Mr. Jonquil. Having another person doing good in the area certainly won’t hurt anyone.”
That was true. He nodded, feeling surer in his course of action. “This will be a good thing.”
“And it might keep you from climbing out onto that banister again.” Mrs. Dalton shuddered. “I don’t know how your mother survived seeing you doing things like that.”
“Just don’t tell her I’m still doing it, and I think we’ll be fine.”
“My word of honor.” She nodded to him. “Now, you go think of some good deeds you can do, knowing what you know of the neighborhood—something Miss Sarvol hasn’t had the chance to learn yet—so you can get first crack at this competition of yours. That’ll give her pause, I’d dare say.”
It would, at that. And it might offer him a much-needed bit of confidence, something that was far too often lacking.
* * *
Once a week, the parish choir met at the church to practice their hymns for Sunday services. Harold always attended, though he did not participate. Being present allowed him to show his support for their efforts while enjoying the soothing strains of their music. He brought along his portable writing desk and sat in a pew, working on his sermons or correspondence. It was a good arrangement all around.
That week, on the day of choir practice, he’d spent a good part of the afternoon at the abbey ruins, a thirty-minute ride from Collingham. Climbing helped him work out his frustrations. But he’d been there longer than he’d expected and returned with barely enough time to clean himself up and get to the church.
He fortunately arrived before anyone else, as he was meant to, and opened the church. He’d cut that too close.
He lit the candles near the doorway and a few surrounding the pews, giving light enough for him to set his portable writing desk on his usual choir-night pew. He whistled as he made his way toward the chancel to light the candles there. For the length of a few bars, he didn’t think about the tune he’d chosen, then the truth of it penetrated his thoughts: “Good Ale for My Money.” He was whistling a tune about ale. In the church.
“Act well your part,” he reminded himself, then silently added, you clodhead.
After a moment—a silent one—he had the lamps and candles lit. This was one of his favorite moments in the week. The chapel was quiet and peaceful. The flicker of candlelight glittered on the stained glass high above in the clerestory. He stood alone in a building where his family had stood and worshiped for centuries. In these quiet moments alone in the chapel, without the pressures of his responsibilities or the requirement to talk to endless streams of people when he was overwhelmed and tired, he felt peace. He felt a connection to generations of his family that was hard to explain. He felt almost as if they were there as well, silently surrounding him. Supporting him.
Philip and Layton would have harassed him for the rest of his life if they had the first idea that he thought such things. They didn’t understand what it was like to need the reassurance that came from imagining his family buoying him up and hoping they were proud of him.
Would Father have been proud? His gaze turned, as it so often did, to the family pew and the spot where his father had always sat. Father and Mater would likely have preferred to sit together, but with so many young boys to keep an eye on, most of whom had had a tendency toward rowdiness, they’d needed to adopt a more strategic arrangement.
Harold had usually sat on his father’s left side. He still sometimes found himself expecting to smell Father’s shaving soap when he entered these walls. He still half expected to hear his voice. Harold had adopted a habit when he was very young of bringing a bit of paper and a lead pencil with him on Sundays. He would scratch out questions for his father, then pass the bit of parchment to him. Father always wrote out an answer, no matter how silly the inquiry. Sometimes Harold asked after unimportant things. Sometimes his questions were far more serious. Still, Father answered. He’d always answered.
But his place on that pew was empty now. It had been for half of Harold’s life.
“I wish you were here,” he whispered. “I have so many questions, and I don’t have anyone to answer them.”
Silence. And an empty pew. That was all he had in that vulnerable moment.
There was a reason he didn’t sit there during these choir practices. The music was and ought to be joyful. He did not wish to attach his grief to it.
He made his way to his writing spot. He’d not even sat down before Mr. Felt, who acted as head of the choir, stepped inside.
“Good evening,” Harold said.
The usual nod answered. “Good evening.”
Harold took his seat and opened his portable writing desk. That night, he meant to work on his sermon. He had set his Bible and Book of Common Prayer next to him on the pew when the sound of jovial voices floated in. The rest of the choir had arrived.
Harold stood once more and turned to face them as they made their way toward the choir stalls. They saw him and dipped their heads.
“Good evening,” he said to the group as they passed. He received a near-unison “Good evening” in response.
They passed on to their places, and he retook his seat. Usually, they began rehearsing directly, warming their voices with various vocal exercises. This time, however, they launched into a discussion.
He didn’t pay them much heed; they didn’t need his interference. His responsibilities required him to talk often enough that he appreciated those moments when he could silently fulfill his duties.
An unmistakable American accent entered their conversation. “I do sing, but I can see that all the seats in the choir are occupied.”
Sarah. Harold’s head snappe
d up. He didn’t have to search for her. Other than Mr. Felt, she was the only one not sitting.
“My goal, though, is to assist with the music in whatever way would be most helpful,” she continued. “Simply tell me what I can do.”
Helpful. Sarah was beginning her campaign. He ought not to have been surprised.
“I could use help organizing,” Mr. Felt said. “There’s so very much to arrange and prepare. Someone to keep hold of the music, hand it out, and collect it, to arrive a bit ahead of services and set the music in the stalls. That would allow a smoother transition on Sundays.”
It was far from the enjoyment one would have participating in the singing when that was what she’d wanted to do, but Sarah showed no signs of disappointment or reluctance. She was, after all, filling a need, which was part of their wager.
“These are the pieces we are singing this week.” Mr. Felt gave her a small stack of papers. “These”—he handed her another—“we will perform the following Sunday. And these”—he added more still—“are for the week after that.”
Sarah nodded. “I’ll give them this week’s music. Let me know when you are in need of the next.”
She did exactly as she’d offered, placing a sheet of music on the various stands throughout the stalls. She moved about with a bounce in her step. How well he remembered that about her. She always seemed to be anticipating something exciting. “Like a watch that is always fully wound,” Father had once said to describe her. He wasn’t wrong. It was infectious. Even when he’d been discouraged, she’d lifted his spirits with her ceaseless cheer and energy.
Sarah greeted several of the choir members by name, though they were not people she was likely to have met during her previous visits. She had already made friends. He lowered his head to hide his smile. She had always been affable, sometimes to a fault. He’d admired that about her; she didn’t feel overwhelmed just talking to people.
With the music dispersed, she stepped away from the choir stalls and into the nave. Mr. Felt began the musical part of the evening. This was the point when Harold generally lost himself in his work, the music soothing and pleasant, even if there were many starts and stops and a few sour notes. They were preparing to do their duty just as he was undertaking his. Working while they were working dispelled some of the isolation he felt.
This week, however, there was a distraction. Sarah didn’t content herself with sitting in the first pew, directly in front of the choir. She sat in the pew across from his, separated only by the aisle that divided the nave down the middle. Her eyes were on the singers, but he didn’t for a moment think she wasn’t aware of his presence. He could hardly have been more aware of hers.
He glanced in her direction a few times. Each time, her not-quite-hidden smile grew a little. She was enjoying this and clearly thought her participation was a victory for her in their challenge.
“I am here offering support as well, you will notice.” He kept his eyes on his paper, though he wasn’t writing anything.
She didn’t answer but kept watching the choir. He didn’t say anything else as the practice continued. She didn’t either, at least not to him. Mr. Felt requested the next sheet of music, and she quickly obliged with words of praise for the singers, the sincerity of which could not have been mistaken.
“Lovely,” she said, pausing in front of them all. “Simply lovely. I do hope I will be permitted to come listen to you practice every week.”
Smiles beamed forth.
Sarah turned to Mr. Felt. “In exchange for offering whatever help you need, of course.”
“You are welcome any time, Miss Sarvol.”
She bobbed a little in place and held the music sheets against her chest. “I will not disrupt any longer.” After another quick smile at the singers, she returned to the pew she had occupied before, the one directly across from him. She listened for a moment as the choir worked through a difficult section of the piece, then bent over her stack of music sheets and carefully arranged and piled them.
She set the stack beside the third piece the choir meant to rehearse that evening. With a look of absolute pleased contentment, she returned her gaze to the stalls.
Choir night was usually Harold’s most productive. Yet, that evening, he was accomplishing absolutely nothing. Sarah continually pulled his attention, as she’d done every day of her family’s previous visit to Collingham. He’d watched for her in crowds, aware of her every time she was present, thinking of her when she wasn’t. Truth be told, he’d thought of her often in the years since.
After a long moment, she rose. She didn’t move toward the choir stalls but took the few steps to his pew. Without a word, she sat beside him, not so close as to be touching or particularly intimate in their arrangement but certainly near enough for conversation.
His heart leaped immediately to his throat. Their most recent conversation had ended in this ridiculous competition. The one before that had ended with a kiss and him being sent sprawling against rocks and water and into years of regret.
“Mrs. Hightower says they are taking on more complicated arrangements,” she said without preamble. Apparently, she wasn’t as wary of discussions as he was. “A number of the choir members are feeling overwhelmed.”
He hadn’t heard as much; he’d certainly not seen any signs of it, and he was with them every week. “They always do fine.”
She didn’t argue. “Mrs. Gibbons says Mr. Felt has been choosing more complicated pieces because he worries that their offerings have not been good enough.”
What had given Mr. Felt that impression? “They are always very good.”
“Some of the choir members wish he would return to the simpler pieces, as they enjoyed those better. Others, though, are appreciative of the opportunity to expand their abilities. There are whispers, especially amongst the altos, that if the music grows too difficult or the choir is not afforded the occasional easier or more familiar pieces, some of the members may stop participating.”
He turned toward her. “How many are thinking of leaving?” The choir was not in need of Sarah joining their ranks at the moment, but they weren’t so large as to be able to lose more than a member or two.
“Enough that Mrs. Hightower is concerned.” Sarah’s eyes were on the choir, though she spoke low and directly to him. “Mr. Gibbons, who I am told has been a member of the parish choir longer than anyone, shares her worries.”
He had seen no such signs of discontent despite having been present for every rehearsal for more than a year. “How did you hear of this?”
She leaned closer, eyes still forward, and whispered, “I discovered a shockingly effective means of learning things about people.” She made a show of looking about the chapel as if afraid she would be overheard revealing her secret. “I talk to them.”
The unfairness of that pricked at him. He spoke to people all the time, no matter that it was harder for him than it was for her. And he spoke to them in his uncertainty and his exhaustion. “I talk to people as well, Sarah.”
She eyed him sidelong, and he realized what he’d said.
“Miss Sarvol,” he corrected.
The choir’s voices soared into the uppermost rafters of the church, forming an impressive and soothing chord.
“They are very good,” Sarah said. “I hope they do not let their discouragement get the better of them.”
“They add something wonderful to the Sunday services,” he said. “Music has the ability to reach people when words cannot.”
She looked over at him. “Do you really feel that way?”
“I have always appreciated music,” he said. “You know that. We spoke of it often.”
“We spoke of a lot of things, Mr. Jonquil.” She rose. “Not all of them proved to be true.”
He was afforded no opportunity to respond. He likely couldn’t have, even if she’d remained sitting beside him
for hours. There was an accusation in her words he didn’t deserve. He’d never been dishonest. Indeed, he’d worn his heart on his sleeve with her, something he hadn’t done before. Or since.
He looked to Father’s spot on the Jonquil family pew. What he wouldn’t give to be able to pass a note to his father now.
Mr. Felt had turned to face the pews, his gaze falling on Sarah. “How was that? This is a difficult piece.”
“It was simply lovely,” she said. “The height of the refrain a moment ago reached the very heavens, I am certain of it.”
Looks of relief touched all their faces. Watching that transformation, Harold realized for the first time how tense they usually appeared. Perhaps they truly were as strained as Sarah had indicated.
“We do have one more week to practice it,” Mrs. Hightower said, sounding both grateful and concerned.
Sarah slipped over to the pew she’d been on originally and picked up the as-yet-unrehearsed music. “Oh, we often sang this one in the congregation I grew up in. I did not realize our two countries had this hymn in common.” She held the papers to her chest, smiling broadly at the singers. “I am so pleased that you will be singing it.”
“The arrangement is very simple,” Mr. Felt warned. His words were for Sarah, but his gaze darted to Harold.
“The message is best served with simplicity.” Sarah moved to where Mr. Felt stood. “As Mr. Jonquil only just said to me, music has the ability to touch people in ways nothing else can. I have no doubt that your efforts on this piece will do precisely that.”
Very nearly in unison, every eye turned to Harold. Never before had he been asked to comment during a choir rehearsal. Not once. He hadn’t the first idea the appropriate things for a vicar to say or do in this circumstance.
Was he meant to offer technical advice? Approve or disapprove of their choice of music? Simply nod and agree? He could guess, but he might be wrong.
He cleared his throat. Had that sounded as awkward as it had felt? Everyone was watching him in anticipation. He hazarded a look at Sarah, fully expecting to see mockery—he received that often enough from his brothers—or triumph, considering she was managing a more helpful interaction with the choir that night than he was. Instead, she watched him with what could be described only as hope. She gave him an earnest little nod of encouragement.
The Heart of a Vicar Page 6
