The Heart of a Vicar

by Sarah M. Eden

  But what was the appropriate thing to say? He didn’t want to do anything incorrect or inappropriate.

  “Your music is beautiful every week,” he said. “It adds greatly to our services.”

  Mr. Felt still looked concerned. “This song”—he indicated the one Sarah still held—“really is very simple.”

  “Holy writ does equate simplicity with sincerity.” Surely referencing the Bible was permissible for a vicar on any occasion. “I do not believe you need to consider it a flaw in your offering.”

  That did not fully alleviate Mr. Felt’s look of concern. “Our piece this Sunday will not be simple at all.”

  Harold’s attempts to help had made things worse. Why was it he so often failed to do the good he wanted to do? He tried so hard to fulfill everyone’s expectations but continually fell short.

  Referencing the Bible had not helped a moment ago, but it was all he could think to do. “We are instructed in the New Testament to expand upon our talents. Choosing music that challenges your abilities would certainly be fulfilling that duty.”

  Mr. Felt looked back at the singers. “Perhaps a combination of difficult and simple pieces would be our best approach.”

  He received enthusiastic agreement, especially from the alto section. A conversation ensued in which various suggestions were made for musical pieces, some falling into the familiar and simple category, others clearly meant to increase the members’ skills.

  Harold sat once more, breathing a sigh of relief. He’d managed to say something helpful, and now he could return to quietly listening to the music. Choir nights were usually his easiest, the one time he fit his responsibilities: sit quietly, get his work done, enjoy the music. He didn’t have to pretend. This night had not gone as planned.

  As the choir discussion continued, Sarah quietly collected the music they’d been practicing and handed out the final piece. She slipped silently from among them and returned to the pew across from his.

  “Perhaps we can avoid a mutiny now,” she said.

  He nodded. He’d nearly used up his allotment of words for the day. He was exhausted instead of rejuvenated. Would even choir night be draining now? He didn’t know where he would find the energy to keep going when his endurance inevitably ran out.

  “I believe supporting and encouraging the efforts of the parish choir is a task a good vicar would see to,” Sarah added.

  He understood perfectly what she was hinting at. “I have been supporting them every week since taking on the duties of this parish.”

  She was undeterred. “The challenge isn’t who does a task and who doesn’t. It is who does it better.”

  He hadn’t a ready response, at least not one he was willing to give. He had stumbled through his attempts to offer the right response to Mr. Felt’s inquiries. He’d been present for nearly countless rehearsals, and yet, until Sarah had pointed it out, he had been unaware of the difficulties rumbling beneath the surface.

  He was a good vicar. He told himself that again and again. If only someone, himself included, truly believed that.

  Chapter Six

  Philip had left for Shropshire several days earlier. Before departing, he’d asked Harold to look in on Sorrel now and then, concerned that she would overtax herself. Harold had readily accepted, grateful for a way to be of help.

  He made his way to the small informal sitting room at Lampton Park. Sorrel was there, seated in an armchair near the hearth, shielded from the heat by an embroidered fireplace screen. It would have been a very cozy scene, except she sat alone, the only person in the large room. Her gaze did not appear to be on anything in particular. She hadn’t any sewing in her hands or a book to read. She simply sat, alone and still.

  Perhaps loneliness ought to have been as big a concern as her health. Harold knew what it was to feel alone; he knew the way that pierced a person.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  Sorrel looked up. A very quick smile flashed over her face, one that spoke far more of obligation than true pleasure. Harold had come to know Sorrel well enough over the nearly two years she had been his sister-in-law to not be the least offended. She was as reserved as Philip was flamboyant. And her history had taught her to guard herself against the possibility of being hurt, particularly by those who professed to care for her. Family was kept as much at a distance as strangers, sometimes more.

  “I hope you do not mind that I have come to call,” he said as he crossed to where she sat.

  Her expression didn’t change in the least. “Did Philip require this of you?”

  Harold preferred not to lie, though he knew Sorrel would not be terribly pleased with his answer. “We both know your husband’s propensity for worrying about you.”

  She pushed out a puff of air. Her gaze returned to the fire. “Worrying about me has become his primary profession this past year and more.”

  “Our father was a worrier,” Harold said.

  Sorrel looked at him once more.

  “I mean that in the best sense,” Harold clarified. “He cared deeply for those he loved and dedicated himself to their well-being, but it meant he often worried.”

  “Often is not the same as constantly,” Sorrel said.

  “Mater’s health was not so fragile as yours.”

  Her mouth tensed. “I am not fragile.”

  “I did not mean to imply that you were.” He was not very good at this. What kind of vicar couldn’t manage the most basic words of reassurance? “One is not defined by one’s health.”

  “Spoken like someone whose health is not poor.”

  A maid came inside carrying a tea tray. The housekeeper moved at her side, watching both the tray and Sorrel with concern. The tray was carefully placed on the side table. The maid curtsied.

  The housekeeper lingered, her brow pulled as her eyes searched Sorrel’s face. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Lady Lampton?”

  Sorrel shook her head.

  The housekeeper remained a moment longer, not looking the least reassured. That set Harold to studying Sorrel a bit more closely himself. The tension in her face was unmistakable. Harold had assumed it was the result of her frustration at being “checked on.” He suspected now that what he was seeing was pain.

  Her suffering had increased tenfold during her previous pregnancies. Was she struggling again?

  Her complexion had always been pale. Yet she looked almost colorless, spots of heat on either cheek only adding to her pallor. Philip hadn’t specified that he wished the doctor sent for if Sorrel was less than well. But she needed medical care. The family knew all too well how quickly her circumstances could turn tragic. They were also well aware of her prickliness.

  She shook her head. “I know that look, Harold. I call it the Jonquil Furrow, and it is infuriating.”

  “As one who is regularly the recipient of the Jonquil Grin of Mockery and Derision, I believe I have greater room for complaint than you.”

  “Did your brothers inherit that look from your father as well?” Sorrel asked.

  “No. He teased and jested, but he never did so at anyone’s expense.”

  “I wish I’d known him.” Sorrel spoke quietly, sincerely, with real regret.

  “He was an exemplary gentleman.” One Harold hoped he would have made proud. He knew with perfect certainty that his father would have been disappointed in him if he didn’t make every effort to help alleviate Sorrel’s suffering. But what could he do? He had no expertise in the area of medicine, neither did his efforts to offer words of reassurance generally prove fruitful. “Will you please allow me to send for Dr. Scorseby?”

  She rubbed at her temples. “Sending for the doctor only makes Philip fret more.”

  “Yes, but Philip is not here.”

  The smallest hint of a smile pulled at her lips. “Holy Harry is encouraging me to keep secr
ets from my husband?”

  Of all the people who ever called him by that much-disliked moniker, only Sorrel ever said it in a way that actually made him laugh. “I am simply looking for more reasons to pray for Philip’s soul, as doing so brings me an unholy degree of satisfaction.”

  “Are unholy prayers actually heard?” Sorrel asked.

  “Lud, I hope so.”

  Sorrel smiled at him, the sight made more amusing by its rarity of late. “I suspect your brothers underestimate you, Harold.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” He allowed a lopsided smile. “Someday they’ll realize as much.”

  “I hope they do,” she said. “They are a bit blockheaded on some topics.”

  “It is a very good thing you are not.” He quite pointedly didn’t look at her.

  “You are saying I ought to admit that sending for Dr. Scorseby would be a good idea?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t think he needed to.

  “You’re right, of course.” The admission clearly caused her some regret. “I’ve been thinking all morning that I ought to ask him to come by, but doing so feels like admitting that— that I’m—” She took a breath. “I wanted things to go so much better this time.”

  “I will send for the doctor,” he said. “And you can tell yourself that, in true Jonquil fashion, I am fretting and worrying more than is necessary.”

  “You are generally sensible, Harold. I cannot excuse away your concern.”

  He appreciated the confidence but felt compelled to be completely honest. “Jason is the sensible brother.”

  She actually snorted. “No, he’s not.”

  Harold was grateful to see her spirits lightened, however minutely. Encouraging that change seemed his wisest course of action. “Which one is Jason, then?”

  “Stubborn,” she said.

  He rose and moved toward the door, though he continued speaking with her. “What about Corbin?”

  “Gentle.”

  That was absolutely accurate. Harold addressed the footman standing in the corridor outside the sitting room. “Please have someone from the stables ride to Dr. Scorseby’s home and ask him to call upon Lady Lampton at his first opportunity.”

  A nod preceded the footman’s departure.

  Harold turned back to his sister-in-law. “So, we have a stubborn brother and a gentle brother. What is Layton?”

  “Compassionate,” she said. “Though he struggles to extend that compassion to himself.”

  Harold sat once more, intrigued by her perspective on his family. “And Stanley?”

  “Noble, sometimes to the point of being a little obnoxious.”

  Harold laughed; he couldn’t help himself. “What about Charlie?”

  “He is still becoming the gentleman he will be,” she said.

  “At the moment,” he clarified. “How would you describe him now?”

  “Lonely,” she said. “Heaven knows he has a great many friends at university and scattered around the kingdom. But here, among his family and in this neighborhood, he is rather alone. I believe it is why he finds himself so often in mischief when he is here.”

  “Boredom?” Harold had wondered as much.

  She nodded. “And I believe it is why he so eagerly accepted Mr. Lancaster’s invitation to join him in Shropshire. It gave him something to do and someone to spend time with.”

  Harold would not have thought of that when describing his younger brother, who was always so personable and lively, but thinking on it now, he could not deny there was truth to the assessment. “What about Philip? Who is he?”

  She didn’t answer. Her brow pulled low. She pressed her lips together, emotion shaking her chin. The tiniest sheen of tears filled her eyes.

  He hadn’t meant to cause her pain. The topic had seemed to be an enjoyable one. How was it he continually took the wrong route in his conversations?

  “Which brother am I?” He would rather endure a potentially less-than-flattering assessment than to push forward with a topic that was making his usually unflappable sister-in-law cry.

  She didn’t even have to think. “Adrift.”

  “Adrift?” Of all the things she might have said, he would not have guessed at that.

  She nodded, just as confident in her answer as she had been when she’d offered it a moment earlier.

  Adrift. She made him sound as though he had no idea what he was doing. Of all the brothers, he had known the longest who he would one day be. The family had fashioned a nickname for him ages ago based solely on what he was meant to become. Adrift hardly seemed the right word.

  “I’ve upset you.” There was the regret he’d expected to hear a moment ago. “I didn’t intend to.”

  He waved it off. “I was simply surprised, is all.” It was, of course, not all. He didn’t wish to dig too much deeper into her assessment. “I have had my character evaluated before, but that was never the descriptor that was decided on.”

  “What was decided on in those instances?” she asked.

  He borrowed a page from Philip’s book and chose a light response. It seemed the right approach. “My brothers usually chose ‘pious’ or ‘sanctimonious.’ A young lady I once danced with at an assembly insisted on ‘boring.’ Another young lady has recently settled on ‘indifferent.’”

  Sorrel watched him more closely. “What young lady said ‘indifferent’?” Bless her, Sorrel sounded offended on his behalf. His brothers would only have laughed.

  “Is there anything I can do for you while we are waiting for the doctor?” he asked, avoiding her question.

  Worry entered her expression once more. “Do you promise not to tell Philip?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Are you asking me as his brother or as your vicar?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He smiled. “No. I don’t plan to say anything either way.”

  “Then you will have my undying loyalty.” She took a deep breath. “I really need to lie down. I feel less sick when I do, and my pains stop. I was embarrassed and, I’ll admit, a bit too proud, to ask any of the footmen to carry me up.”

  “Are you not able to walk?” That could not be a good sign.

  “Not without a struggle. It is taking all the strength I have to simply sit here without collapsing or crying or . . .” She sighed.

  “Say no more.” Harold rose once more. “Allow me to carry you up. I do have your undying loyalty, after all.”

  She silently accepted, more than a little embarrassment in her expression. He lifted her into his arms, and she hooked her arm around his neck. Sorrel was lighter than she ought to have been, considering she had only a few short months remaining until she reached the time of her confinement.

  “I do not like the idea of you being here alone while Philip is away,” he said. “Allow me to stay here in the house or send for Marion. There ought to be someone here so you needn’t be bothered by anything you don’t care to be bothered by.”

  “Marion will tell Layton, and Layton will tell Philip the moment he walks in the door.” Sorrel made quite an effort at sounding annoyed, yet there was a longing in her tone. Philip’s tendency to fret ruffled her feathers a little, but she clearly missed him and found comfort in the reassurance of his affection.

  “I am willing to remain,” he repeated, “but you might find that having another lady here would be more comfortable, even if she is likely to tattle on you.”

  “Philip will sort it out either way,” she said with exhaustion. “He sees far more than I wish he did.”

  Harold didn’t need directions to Sorrel’s bedchamber. She now claimed the one Mater had used all the years Harold was growing up. He knew every twist and turn, every room of this house.

  He carried her inside. “The bed or the settee?”

  “Bed, please,” she said. “I am hoping I might
actually be able to sleep.”

  He set her down. “I will pull the bell for your abigail. She can see that you are prepared for the doctor’s visit.”

  Sorrel slumped against the pile of pillows. “Thank you, Harold.”

  “My pleasure, Sorrel.” It truly was. It was a pleasure to be of help, to offer comfort. “I will send for Marion. And I will stay until I know if there is anything Dr. Scorseby needs me to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome.” Few things brought him as much satisfaction as helping people. Knowing he’d made a difference for someone he cared for as much as he did his sister-in-law meant a lot.

  “Do you know, Harold, the footman who has carried me about in the past is quite strong, yet he struggles more with the task than you did?”

  Harold folded his arms across his chest. “I would say that footman of yours is not so strong, after all. You, my dear sister, are very light.”

  She shook her head. “I’m really not. You are simply surprisingly strong. You are a mysterious sort of vicar, Holy Harry.”

  He let out a pent-up breath. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah hadn’t seen Scott all week, beyond the occasional glimpse down a corridor. Truth be told, she’d seen hardly anyone at Sarvol House, not even the servants. She hadn’t been assigned a particular maid to help her each day nor given the opportunity to interview and hire one of her own. Whichever of the chambermaids was available in the mornings and at bedtime was sent to quickly assist her. It was not a feasible arrangement long-term.

  Though Scott would not have begrudged her a lady’s maid, this was not his estate yet and he was not the one who made those decisions. She needed to ask her uncle.

  He would be in the library. He was always in the library during the day, requiring Scott to be there as well. Sarah hadn’t been privy to their many discussions but assumed there was a great deal her brother needed to learn in order to one day be master of this estate.