The Heart of a Vicar

by Sarah M. Eden

  Sarah nodded eagerly. “I may very well purchase enough items, in the name of aiding those in need, of course, that my brother would be quite burdened by them. Having a footman at the fair somewhere—he needn’t keep to our side—would be a welcome guard against desperation.”

  Scott motioned the footman away. “Let the butler know before you take word to the stables. We’ll wait under the front portico and depart as soon as everyone is ready.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The footman rushed off.

  Scott grinned at Sarah. “It seems we are to liberate more than merely ourselves today.”

  “I did challenge our good vicar to a competition of saintliness,” she said. “I am hopeful the footman’s freedom will be a point in my favor.”

  They stepped outside, closing the door behind them. Uncle was unlikely to find them and rescind his permission if they were outside.

  “I still cannot believe you did that.” He laughed though. Sarah’s heart warmed to hear it. Scott was not so cheerful as he had once been. “We wonder why, being from America, we are looked on as uncouth, then you declare to the vicar that you are a better vicar than he is.”

  “This isn’t just ‘a vicar,’” she said. “This is Harold. You knew him nearly as well as I did. Are you not struck by the change in him?”

  Scott nodded in acknowledgment. “He was always more sedate than his brothers, at least when it wasn’t just the two of us, or the three of us.” He motioned to her. “But he does seem to have become . . . standoffish or a little pretentious or something.” He shrugged minutely. “Whatever the change, it is unfortunate. A vicar can do a lot of good simply by allowing himself to be human.”

  “Precisely.” Hearing Scott express the same thoughts that had driven her to enact the admittedly mad wager helped her view of the matter. “And I do not think he is happy. Harold ought to be happy.”

  A softness, one tinged with just a bit too much pity, entered Scott’s eyes. “For a time, I thought his happiness and yours would be more closely tied together.”

  She could feel the hot blush creep up her neck. “That was not to be. But that doesn’t mean I want him to live a miserable life or not be fulfilled in the work he has chosen. I assure you, I have recovered from my disappointment where he is concerned.”

  “Father worried about the attachment he could see growing in you. We, none of us, believed it could end well.”

  She swallowed against a sudden, unexpected lump in her throat. “Everyone could see how naïve I was?”

  Scott didn’t answer immediately. Why the hesitation?

  “Harold was in no position to make any connection between you permanent,” he said after a moment. “And you would soon be leaving for another continent, not to return for years. There was no hope of anything permanent between you.”

  “That is not necessarily true. We might have written to each other until he was in a position and of an age to make an offer.”

  Scott shook his head. “The gentleman’s code forbids raising expectations that are unlikely to be fulfilled for years, if at all. Harold would have known as much. I knew as much, and I am an ‘uncouth American.’”

  She didn’t at all like the idea forming in her mind. “Then he must have realized from the beginning that there would be no lasting connection between us.”

  Scott nodded, though he seemed to regret the truth he was sharing with her.

  Sarah didn’t know whether to be upset or simply heartbroken for her younger self. “You believe he led me on?”

  Scott shook his head. “He was careless, and he ought not to have been. But I do not believe he intended to deceive you.”

  “Intended or not, he did.”

  Scott put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders. “Father spoke of stepping in, of insisting you not continue spending time with Harold.”

  She felt more than a little humiliated at that revelation. “We thought we were being very . . . discreet about the time we spent together.”

  Scott laughed quietly. “You were, but Father kept a very close eye on both of us. He worried, knowing we were the proverbial fish out of water.”

  “Why did he not say anything about Harold’s misrepresentation, then?”

  Scott gave it a moment’s thought. “I think because he knew, in this house, you were alone and miserable, and that being away from here saved you from our uncle’s unkindness. He wanted you to have some joy in your life.”

  “It didn’t end joyously,” she said quietly.

  “I know. And I am sorry.”

  She closed her eyes a moment and breathed through the rush of heartache she felt. Harold had never intended to pursue further the connection between them that he himself had actively forged. She hadn’t realized the impediments. But he had. He had known what was coming, and he had hurt her anyway.

  “Can you promise me, Sarah, that you are not pursuing this competition in order to wound him a little because he wounded you a lot?”

  She looked at him once more. “He could be doing so much good in this parish, but he keeps himself aloof and distant from the people he serves. There is a sense of duty in his interactions but no indication of dedication. If I can prod him to see how much more he could do and be, that will benefit the people who live here, people among whom we mean to live. Harold Jonquil wounded me more than I have let on, but that injury is not my motivation in this.”

  Scott nodded. “Then you give him a fight to be remembered.”

  She grinned, her heart instantly lighter. “Oh, I intend to.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sarah had never attended an alms fair before. In fact, she suspected Lady Marion, who was credited with organizing the effort, had invented it. With the harvest complete, the hiring and mop fairs over for the year, and winter fast approaching, it had seemed to that enterprising lady a fine time to gather the people of the local area together to benefit those among them who were in difficult straits.

  Outside of the end purpose of the fair, it was really no different from every other local fair Sarah had attended. Stalls filled the large field, each offering temptations of various kinds: food, drink, entertainments, trinkets, and baubles. A portion of what was spent at each stall was to be donated to the poor box at the church.

  Children and families rushed about. Joyous laughter filled the fair.

  “This is so much better than being confined to Sarvol House,” Scott said. “I think we both needed this.”

  Sarah and Scott wandered from stall to stall. They bought meat pies and apples. Scott purchased an embroidered handkerchief from Mrs. Gibbons, who sang in the choir, for Sarah.

  “This is beautiful,” Sarah said. “Did you do the needlework?”

  Mrs. Gibbons beamed. “I did, though Mrs. Carter provided the bits. Seeing as we aren’t keeping the money spent on the baubles, she didn’t want us ending this fair poorer for having helped.”

  “This will be perfect to carry with me on Sundays,” Sarah said, indicating the handkerchief once more. “I will hold it while I listen to you sing.”

  Mrs. Gibbons leaned in closer. “I do not know what you said to Mr. Jonquil, but his support of the simpler pieces of music has taken a weight off our minds, I’ll tell you that. We could hardly manage the complicated things Mr. Felt thought the vicar required.”

  Sarah squeezed her hand. “I am happy to have helped, and I hope you’ll tell me if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Mrs. Jones, she’s a tenant at Lampton Park, has just had a baby, and the poor thing has the colic,” Mrs. Gibbons said. “With Lord Lampton away and the dowager too and young Lady Lampton not feeling well, the poor Jones family has no one to help, though they’re struggling.”

  “Will Mrs. Jones be upset if I mention to Mr. Jonquil that she is in need of some help? I do not wish to overstep myself or give offense.”

&nb
sp; “I’d not think so. They’re not proud people, the Joneses, though that’s all the more reason for stepping in before they ask: they’re likely to wait too long and land themselves in deep water, indeed.”

  Sarah nodded. “I will make certain Mr. Jonquil hears of this need.”

  Mrs. Gibbons smiled broadly. “Are you to be our messenger to the vicar?”

  Sarah laughed. “I will happily serve in that role, though I certainly hope it does not prove necessary often.”

  She and Scott moved along past a few more stalls. A sideways glance revealed that her brother was struggling not to laugh.

  “And what has you sputtering?” she asked.

  “This battle of the vicars. You, sister, appear to be winning handily.”

  She made a show of being quite proud of that. “I told Harold I would. He ought to have believed me.”

  “I ought to have believed what?”

  She spun, staring in the direction of that horrifyingly familiar voice. Harold stood on her other side, watching her with his now-characteristic unreadable expression.

  Scott answered on her behalf. “My dear sister has discovered a need in your parish and has secured the promise of a very helpful informant to relay any other needs of which she becomes aware. And she was thanked for being the ‘messenger to the vicar.’”

  Anyone else might have been offended. Harold actually looked a little hurt. Hurt. She hadn’t been expecting that, and she certainly didn’t wish to cause him pain.

  “People are coming to you with their concerns?” he asked.

  “No. I am going to them. I am asking them how they are faring, what concerns they have, if their neighbors are well.”

  “I talk to them regularly.” Confusion filled his eyes. “I really do, but no one ever tells me any of these things.” His brow drew together in thought. Was he truly pondering her suggestion? She was rather unaccustomed to that. Her mother had not placed much weight on her view of things. Father had been more willing to listen, but her understanding of matters that concerned him had been limited. Scott was kind but didn’t often seek out her opinions. Uncle considered her an unwanted and inconvenient poor relation. There was something so blessedly uplifting about having someone take her seriously and truly listen to her. That the “someone” doing that was this altered Harold made the moment even more unexpected and, in a way, even more welcome. Her long-ago Harold would have done precisely this. Perhaps he was still there, hiding beneath the surface, somewhere.

  Into the silence between them came a voice unknown to Sarah, one clearly belonging to a member of the working class. “Challenge the strongman, Mr. Jonquil? Penny a try.”

  Sarah looked in the same moment Harold did. A man she felt certain was the blacksmith stood inside a fenced-off section of the area. Several large bags of something that looked quite heavy lay on the ground beside him. Standing a touch closer to the path the fair goers trod was a second man, younger than the blacksmith but closely resembling him. His son, perhaps.

  “No, I thank you,” Harold said without pausing for more than the length of a breath.

  “For a fine cause, sir,” the son pressed.

  Harold shook his head.

  “You could challenge him, vicar,” a child hovering nearby said. “You could try.”

  Another child added her voice to the first.

  “Go on, Mr. Jonquil,” the man at the next stall encouraged.

  “Go on,” another man tossed out.

  Harold’s posture stiffened. He shook his head firmly.

  “Go on,” a shout came from the crowd.

  The gathering was not asking for much. A comical and lighthearted competition with arguably the strongest man in the area would entertain and, Sarah felt certain, endear Harold to his parishioners, all while raising funds for those in need. Could he not see this was a perfect opportunity to gain a bit of their trust and faith?

  If only he could understand that reaching out to his parishioners involved more than the few words exchanged on the steps of the church on Sundays. Here was an opportunity for her to help not only his parishioners, but she could help him as well.

  She turned to the blacksmith and his son. “I will challenge the strongman.”

  At first, they simply looked confused. Then, in near perfect unison, grins began creeping across their faces.

  “You’re a tiny thing, Miss Sarvol,” the blacksmith said. “I suspect you’d be easier to lift than any of these bags.”

  “It seems to me,” Sarah said to the crowd watching her with amused interest, “our blacksmith is afraid he will be bested by ‘a tiny thing.’”

  The blacksmith laughed heartily. His son had not stopped smiling. Many in the crowd chuckled as well.

  Sarah pulled her reticule open and produced a penny. “A penny a try, I believe you said.”

  The blacksmith’s son nodded.

  She turned to the crowd, which was growing quickly. “I will pay the forfeit for the attempt, but who will pledge a penny if I can best him?”

  The laughter returned, louder now. Absolute joy filled their faces. They talked and jested among themselves, guessing the chances of her succeeding, which they all seemed to consider absolutely nonexistent.

  “Come now.” She let her laughter show in her smile. “Someone must have some faith I can be triumphant.”

  “I’ll give a penny if you win.” Mr. Felt, who led the choir, appeared at the front of the gathering.

  The blacksmith laughed heartily. “Anyone else care to toss a penny into the pot?”

  “I’ll offer a ha’penny,” another member of the choir said from within the crowd.

  Soon she had offers from all around, the total growing. Sarah hazarded a glance at Harold. He watched her and the gathering with uncertainty.

  “A vicar supports a worthy cause,” she said quietly, knowing he would hear her even with the pledges continuing to be shouted.

  “I have never heard of a vicar participating in feats of strength.” Again, though he clearly disagreed with her, he had not dismissed or belittled her. That part of his character had not changed. She’d needed that these past years.

  “We are up to half a guinea,” the blacksmith said, eyes wide. “I didn’t think we’d earn that much all day.”

  “I’ll pledge a guinea,” Scott said. “I have full faith in my sister.”

  The crowd roared with laughing approval.

  “Go on, then, Miss Sarvol,” someone called. “Show our strongman who’s mightiest.”

  Sarah set her reticule in Scott’s hand, then slipped off her coat, which he held as well. With a show of dignity too overblown to be believed, she moved to the spot where the blacksmith’s son stood. She placed her penny in his hand.

  He motioned her into the fenced area with a shoulder-shaking laugh.

  The blacksmith smiled a bit uncertainly. “What do we do now, then, miss?” he asked under his breath. “You can’t actually lift more than I can.”

  “I know it,” she said, “and they all know it. But we could secure a guinea and a half for the poor here in Collingham. I suggest we not squander the opportunity.”

  He thought a moment, then, face clearing, nodded. “I’ll defer to Miss Sarvol,” he called out to the crowd. “She can begin by lifting this bag here.” Rather than indicating one of his heavy sacks of grain or any of the large rocks brought over for the competitions he had anticipated, the blacksmith motioned to a small burlap sack that, if Sarah had to guess, likely held the man’s lunch.

  Sarah rubbed her gloved hands together as if limbering them up for the task. She approached the bag slowly, examining it from several directions. With a deep breath, she took hold of it. Knowing the point of this particular exhibition was to entertain those who had gathered around and to give them a bit of a laugh for their generosity, she pretended to struggle with the
bag, making a show of calling upon all her strength before at last lifting it up.

  The crowd cheered.

  She set it down once more, feigning exhaustion.

  “Your turn, papa,” the blacksmith’s son called out.

  The blacksmith borrowed a page from her book and put on the same show, grunting and wincing with effort he absolutely was not expending. He yanked his hands, grasping the top of the bag every which way without lifting the bag one bit from the stool it sat on. With a comically dejected posture, he conceded defeat.

  A roar of approval filled the entire fair. A great many of those in attendance had watched the pretended competition play out. Sarah dipped a curtsy to the crowd, receiving enthusiastic applause. She turned to the blacksmith, who she knew would forever be a favorite of hers.

  “Thank you for this,” she said. “These funds will help many.”

  His eyes shone with approval. “You’re a good ’n, Miss Sarvol. We’re lucky to have you here.”

  His words touched her, likely more than he knew. Her uncle’s criticisms echoed in her head too often for her to feel fully secure in her place in this neighborhood. “If ever you hear of a need I can help with, I hope you will tell me.”

  “I will, at that,” he said. “And if ever I can do anything for you.”

  She pretended shock. “Why would I, the strongest person in Collingham, need assistance with anything?”

  He laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh that proved contagious.

  Sarah stepped from the competition area back into the crowd, who were delivering their pledged coins to the blacksmith’s son and pausing long enough to tell her they’d enjoyed the lighthearted display.

  As the crowd dispersed to enjoy the other offerings at the fair, Sarah’s eyes caught Harold’s once more.

  “I do believe that is a point in my favor, Mr. Jonquil,” she said.

  “Performing theatricals with the blacksmith is not one of a vicar’s duties.” He spoke with confidence but not arrogance, a distinction she found encouraging.