“You are absolutely correct,” Mater said. “They need to know, but knowing will hurt.”
He rose and paced away. “A vicar is not meant to cause pain but to relieve it. No matter what I choose, someone will be hurt by this.”
“You did not choose an easy profession, Harold. You did, however, choose an important one.”
He turned to face her once more, horrified that he could feel emotion building behind his eyes. “What if I chose wrong?”
Surprise and worry tugged at her expression. “Are you doubting your choice?”
“Increasingly.” He’d not made the admission out loud until now. “I am realizing I don’t know my parishioners as well as I ought. I know some of their circumstances but not their worries and hearts. I have been Philip and Sorrel’s vicar during both of their recent losses and haven’t on either occasion known at all what to say or do; I certainly don’t now. Layton and Caroline are grieving, and anything I do will only add to it.”
He stopped at the far window.
“I grow so nervous and overwhelmed in conversations, even with my own brothers, that I ramble on. They laugh at my tendency to revert to holy writ, insisting I’m being sanctimonious, but I often don’t know what else to do. It’s easier to quote other people’s words than to offer up my own. It’s also safer.”
“You are offering me your own words,” Mater pointed out.
“That is different.”
“How?”
His reply stuck a moment. “You like me. I’m not a joke to you.” He was to everyone else. “Half the congregation sleeps through my sermons while the other half, I am certain, listens only so they can accurately mock me afterward. I recently learned the choir has been operating under the false assumption that their efforts do not meet with my approval. And increasingly often, I find myself wanting to do things or say things that are not becoming of a man of the church.”
“What sort of things?” Mater sounded genuinely concerned.
“Nothing scandalous or indecent, I assure you. But undignified.” He dropped onto the window seat, letting his shoulders slump. He rubbed his palms together. He’d stayed much longer at the abbey that day than usual. A few of his calluses had torn, and his hands were sore. “Do you remember when I was little and I used to climb trees and walls and—”
“And literally everything?” Mater grinned. “I was convinced you were going to fall and break your neck before you even left for Eton.”
He couldn’t share her humor. “I still do that. Climb things, like the abbey ruins outside of Collingham. Even inside the vicarage. Mrs. Dalton finds it amusing, but we both know I’d lose what respect I have in this parish if I did any such thing in public. And I’m beginning to suspect there is little enough of that respect as it is.”
Mater didn’t comment further but simply watched him.
“I often think of that time Father took me to Astley’s Circus in London when I was eleven years old, not long before he died, and I left utterly fascinated with the idea of joining Astley’s and doing daring feats on horseback.”
She smiled. “He told me about that. We both decided we had best not tell Corbin, as he was likely to be horrified for the horse.” Corbin had always been very fond of animals, horses in particular. “Neither of us thought your interest was a fault, though, or a reason for concern.”
“Not in an eleven-year-old boy, no,” he said. “But now and then, I have the strongest urge to save up for a proper horse and find a quiet meadow somewhere to try to learn a few tricks. I am an adult now, and a vicar. St. Paul insisted that a grown man, especially a man of the church, must leave behind childish things. If I can’t manage that, maybe I’m not meant for this life after all.”
“Personally, Harold, I do not think any of these things truly makes you unsuitable to serve in your chosen capacity,” Mater said. “I am far more concerned at the level of doubt you have in yourself. That is a far greater impediment than a desire to climb a wall or learn to stand on a moving horse. Part of your role as a vicar is to give hope to those you serve. You cannot do that if you have no faith in yourself.”
“What reason have I for faith in myself?” he asked. “I see evidence to the contrary every day.” He was horrified at the emotion he heard in his words but could do nothing to hold it back. “I feel as though I am fighting a battle to convince myself, and every day, I lose more ground.”
Mater stood and crossed to him, joining him on the window seat. “It seems to me, my sweet, loving Harold, that you need to spend some time deciding who you are and what you wish to do with your life.”
“But this was always meant to be my life. I am Holy Harry, born a vicar, quoting scripture from my cradle.”
She sighed. “I cannot tell you how many times I have told each of you boys these past couple of years to stop listening to each other. You are all rather fatheaded.”
For the first time since beginning this unintended confession, Harold smiled, however fleetingly. “Which of our parents do we have to blame for that?”
She laughed. “Both, I am afraid. Especially when we were younger. But your father, in particular, gained the wisdom he needed. By the time you boys joined our family, his judgment was reliably sound.”
“And he always said I was meant for the church.”
Mater shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
That was not at all how Harold remembered things.
“Your father once said to me that you, more so than most of your brothers, had a great many choices available to you. We both agreed that your kindness and compassion coupled with the fact that you were never happier than when you were helping and serving others meant you could, should you choose, make a wonderful vicar.” She took his hand in hers. “And we saw you climb the side of the house, for heaven’s sake, and balance on one foot out on the old stone bridge. You were fearless and curious and adventurous. My sweet boy, the church was never your only option. Your brothers simply took too much delight in teasing you, and you took their words too much to heart.”
“Then I did choose wrong?” His heart fell clear to his toes. Had he set himself on the wrong path entirely?
“I think, perhaps, the issue is you didn’t choose at all.”
He rubbed at his face, weary to his very bones. “What do I do now? How do I sort a mess of this magnitude?”
“With patience,” she said. “And time. And hope.”
He looked to her. “And help?”
She threaded her arm through his. “Your life is important to me. You are important to me. I want to see you happy. And not merely happy in appearance, Harold, but in your soul, the way you ought to be. Happy in yourself and happy as yourself, your true self.”
Though nothing was at all certain—indeed, he felt more uncertain than he had when stepping inside the dower house—Harold felt a flicker of hope that he hadn’t even realized was missing. Mater had always done that for him, given him a firm foundation when the world around him swirled in chaos.
“And do not worry about Layton and Marion,” Mater said. “I will talk with them.”
He hated that he was handing over a duty, however unofficial, to someone else, but he didn’t know what else to do.
Sorrel, it seemed, had been right.
He was adrift.
Chapter Fourteen
“Did you know my mother liked to sing?” Caroline had been peppering her uncle Philip with questions for a solid fifteen minutes, all on topics he might or might not have known about her late mother.
“Yes, she did,” Philip said. “And she had a very pretty voice. She and your papa both sang in the parish choir. That is where they came to know each other so well.”
“Did you know her nose was like mine?”
He tapped the tip of that adorable little nose. “You do look like her, Caroline. And she was a beauty.”
“She was,” Philip said.
Sarah looked to Charlie. He sat comfortably in a nearby chair, watching Caroline with a grin.
His gaze shifted to Sarah. “It is good to hear her talk so happily about Bridget.” He spoke too quietly for Caroline to overhear. “I think it’ll do her good.”
“I believe you’re correct in that.” Having seen the pain in Caroline’s eyes at wanting so desperately to know her mother, Sarah was certain that was precisely what the dear girl needed: to feel a connection.
“Did Swirl know my mother?” Caroline asked Philip.
“No, poppet, she didn’t.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. “I could tell Swirl about her.”
Philip hugged her. “Next time you visit, if your aunt is awake, I think she would love to hear everything you have to say about your mother.”
Her brows tugged low again. “I wish she wasn’t so ill.”
For the length of a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then, his voice breaking the tiniest bit, he said, “I wish that as well.”
Sarah didn’t know all the details of the young Lady Lampton’s situation but knew she was in rather dire straits. She wished she were better acquainted with the lady and could offer greater help and support.
A clamoring from somewhere down the corridor echoed through the sitting room. They all turned and looked in the direction of the door. A moment later, a young lady, likely very near Sarah’s age, with the coloring of a Jonquil but not a bit of the height, flew into the room.
Her eyes settled immediately on Philip. Posture resolute and determined, she declared, “Your brother is an idiot.”
Philip appeared not the least shocked. “You will have to be more specific.”
Charlie snorted, earning a glare from the still unnamed young lady. He pressed his lips closed and hunched low, as if attempting to hide inside himself.
A young servant stepped inside next, one dressed quite casually, and walked with absolute self-assurance. He met Philip’s eye with a smirk one did not generally see exchanged between classes in England.
“Where’s your captain, Pluck?” Philip asked the bold young man.
“Mrs. Captain left him at home, Your High and Mighty Lordship.”
Philip nodded solemnly. “Because he is an idiot, by chance?”
“I can’t say he ain’t, sir.”
Captain. Stanley was the brother in the army, the only one of the Jonquils Sarah had not yet seen. This beauty, then, was Stanley’s wife. She was shockingly beautiful and quite petite. She was also rounded in the middle in a telltale way.
“Fallowgill is a long journey from here, Marjie,” Philip said. “I cannot like the idea of you making the journey without Stanley. Not that you aren’t capable nor that Pluck wouldn’t look after you. I just know Stanley is frantic with worry.”
Marjie—that was the name Philip had given—tipped her chin upward in a show of defiance. “I doubt he has even noticed I left.”
Philip gave her a dry look. “Trust me, dear sister, he has noticed.” He turned to the servant, Pluck. “Have Mrs. Jonquil’s things been taken to whichever bedchamber Mrs. Beck thinks best?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you imagine any other members of the Fallowgill household will descend upon us soon?” Philip asked a bit out of the side of his mouth.
Pluck’s smirk tipped to one side. “I’d wager Cap’n is only a day behind us.”
Philip nodded. “Thank you for seeing her here safely. I trust you remember where the kitchen is and can arrange for yourself a bite to eat.”
Pluck snapped a smart salute, spun on his heel, and marched from the room. He was an odd sort, but Sarah liked him already.
Marjie looked around the room. “Where is Sorrel?”
“She is in bed,” Philip said. “Scorseby has ordered it.”
Marjie crossed to Philip. “How bad is it?”
“She and the baby are both in very real danger,” Philip whispered.
Marjie reached out and set a hand on his arm. “May I see her?”
“She is likely sleeping, but you can certainly look in on her.”
She and Philip both left the room. Caroline was sitting on Charlie’s lap, talking his ear off. Sarah wasn’t at all certain what she ought to do. The family had visitors and chaos and difficulties. While she had enjoyed the rare moment of interaction—she’d had little enough of it lately—she knew it was time for her to leave.
She rose and faced Charlie. “Do you think Philip would mind if I asked for a carriage to be called? It is a long walk to Sarvol House.”
“Not at all,” he answered earnestly. “He’d probably bellow at me all evening if he heard I let you leave without summoning a carriage.”
She smiled. “For your sake, I’ll ask for one.”
Charlie laughed. Caroline took hold of his face and turned him to face her once more, apparently wishing for his undivided attention. “And she sang in the parish choir,” Caroline said.
Charlie nodded, his eyes not wandering from her again.
The little girl felt better now, but she likely had a difficult road ahead of her. She had a mother to grieve, despite having never known her. Her last uncle at home, beyond Philip, would soon live somewhere else and wouldn’t be available for the chat she was so eagerly undertaking.
Stanley and his wife were, apparently, having difficulties.
Philip might very well lose both his unborn child and his wife.
Layton had been noticeably unhappy when last she’d seen him.
The Jonquils were a family in crisis.
She was not in a position to truly help, though she longed to. And in the midst of that longing was a quiet wish that she belonged here at the Park with these people she cared about so deeply and that Scott could live here as well. Neither of them could endure their uncle’s home much longer.
Unbidden into her thoughts came the remembered feel of Harold’s arms enveloping her—not years ago but mere hours earlier. When Caroline had pulled from his embrace, Sarah had fully intended to do the same. But she couldn’t.
Harold Jonquil had, when they were younger, shown himself capable of assuaging her feelings of loneliness and rejection with little more than a glance. The times he’d held her, she had felt deeply needed and loved and cared about. In his arms, she had never doubted she was important to someone.
That afternoon in her miniscule sitting room, she’d felt that reassurance again in a way she hadn’t in years, and she’d been unable to pull herself from it. There was an aching familiarity in his embrace. For those few minutes, she had allowed herself to indulge in the dreams of the home he had inspired in her younger self and marvel at how quickly they returned when he showed himself to be the Harold she had known.
He had such a capacity to love. If only he still allowed himself to do so.
Chapter Fifteen
Sorrel eyed the gathering of ladies. “Then Lord Percival said, ‘I wish my family were more dignified, like the Jonquils.”
Around the room, four Jonquil ladies and Sarah all burst out laughing.
“Your boys have all of Society hoodwinked,” Marion said to Mater.
Sarah had, during this visit, been invited to refer to the ladies more informally. She appreciated the change. For one who hadn’t any family nearby other than Scott, whom she seldom saw, and Uncle Sarvol, who rather despised her, feeling a closer connection to her neighbors helped her feel less alone.
“I’ve watched Philip do an uncanny impression of a seedy inn keeper, complete with unkempt appearance and dirt-smudged face,” Sorrel said. “No one would think him dignified after that.”
Marjie, whom Sarah had learned was not only Stanley’s wife but Sorrel’s younger sister, pretended to be shocked. “
The impeccable Lord Lampton smudged and unkempt? Scandalous!”
Sorrel laughed weakly. She was clearly not well but was alert and personable. Sarah hoped that meant her situation was improving.
Marion jumped in. “I happen to know the future Lord Farland walks about his house in his shirtsleeves and trousers without even his shoes on to add the slightest bit of respectability.”
“Shocking!” Marjie said with a smile in her eyes.
“I can improve upon that,” Mater said. “I once found the current Lord Cavratt, whom I will always consider part of this family, hanging from the kitchen garden gate by his trousers. I had to rescue him.”
They all laughed again.
“When was this?” Marion asked.
“Last week,” Sorrel tossed out dryly, bringing on another round of room-wide laughter.
Mater swatted at her playfully. “It was ages ago. He was so sweet and so embarrassed.”
“I believe I can best all of you,” Sarah said.
They looked to her with both amusement and doubt.
“I have heard Harold Jonquil swear.”
No one seemed to know whether to laugh, deny the possibility, or simply sit in mute shock.
Sarah couldn’t help but grin. “He would have been ten or eleven years old. The brothers were out on the east lawn playing bowls. Harold and Scott were teamed together, and Stanley and I were challenging them. Harold was a single good throw from capturing victory when Philip, Layton, and—” She had to think a moment, trying to recall Lord Cavratt’s Christian name; he hadn’t been Lord Cavratt at the time of this incident after all—“and Crispin came running through at break-neck speed and scattered the bowls in all directions.”
She had the ladies’ rapt attention.
“Harold looked over the destruction wide-eyed, then, clear as day, swore at his quickly departing brothers. Stanley burst out laughing; I truly thought he would suffocate, he was laughing so hard. Harold, poor soul, was horrified. If he’d had a shovel nearby, I think he would have dug a hole and climbed in.”
The Heart of a Vicar Page 14
