“You always did listen to me though,” she said. “No matter how mundane the topic or uninteresting it must have been to you, you always listened.”
“I don’t remember any uninteresting conversations.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I suspect climbing to such drastic heights has somehow rattled your memory.”
“It’s not the most sensible thing,” he said. “It’s also not very vicarly.”
“Does it follow, though, that climbing is unvicarly?”
“Could you imagine the Archbishop of York scaling the walls of Beverley Minster?” he asked dryly. “All of England would heap criticism on him day and night.”
She watched him more closely. He found himself squirming under her scrutiny. “Why does it matter so much to you that people approve of you?”
“Maybe because so many don’t.” He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “Jason’s wife actually compared me to a rooster that her family ate for dinner. And everyone laughed. That’s all they ever do. They laugh at Holy Harry.” He motioned at the wall. “I will not give them further reason to disapprove of me and make me the permanent laughingstock of the family. And I’d rather not have that mockery coming from the parish as well.”
“And that is why you are so adamant about acting the part of the perfect vicar?”
“‘Act well your part; there all the honor lies.’ My father used to say that.”
“Alexander Pope, if I’m not mistaken,” Sarah said.
Harold nodded. The quote did originate with that well-known poet. “Father lived that ideal, and he wanted us to as well. Doing our best to fill our various roles was the honorable thing and the approach most likely to succeed.”
She didn’t appear convinced. “‘Act well your part,’ Harold, not ‘Act well a part,’ or ‘a part as defined by others.’ I think your father meant to convey that whichever part you as a unique individual chose to take upon you, you should do it in the best way you can. What acting it well means will be different depending on the person assuming it.”
“Some approaches are too different.”
She reached out and took his hand. He’d not yet put his gloves back on.
“I’m sorry my hands are so callused,” he said. “A gentleman’s hands aren’t supposed to feel that way.”
“I’d wager Corbin’s hands are rough as well and Stanley’s.” She wrapped her other hand around the back of his, sandwiching his hand between both of hers. “They are both gentlemen.”
“They are not vicars.”
“But you are.”
He pushed out a breath and let the tension leave his shoulders. “I am at the moment.”
Her brow pulled. “Do you expect that to change?”
He slipped his hands free. He’d not intended to make that admission. Sarah had always been that way. “Do you wish to ride back home, or would you care to be driven?” He indicated the cart.
She didn’t answer immediately but studied him. He’d admitted a great deal already; he wasn’t going to say more, not when he still lacked so many answers himself.
“I think I would enjoy continuing my ride. Uncle might never again allow it.”
Her uncle was a stingy, difficult man.
“Enjoy the remainder of your ride, Sarah.”
“Thank you.”
He stood beside the cart, watching as she rode away. Here was another person insisting that he could be himself and a vicar without being a failure. He wanted to believe them. Sarah and Mater were intelligent and sensible. If he stopped trying so hard to be what he ought, if he started being truly himself and the mockery didn’t stop—Harold pushed out a tense, uncomfortable breath. He needed answers but doubted he was truly ready for them.
Chapter Seventeen
Sarah sat in Lady Lampton’s sitting room, equally intrigued and nervous at the possibility that Harold might come to visit his sister-in-law. Her mind had been filled with him in the fortnight since she’d seen him hanging precariously from the side of the abbey ruins. She didn’t know which emotion was her strongest when thinking back on that moment: fear that he might fall or relief at finally seeing him shed, however momentarily, the stiff façade he’d adopted. The Harold she had known was still there. She saw him now and then but never more than briefly.
She’d spent some time pondering his declaration that vicars don’t climb walls. Though she personally would not be put off by a man of the church embracing such an odd pastime, provided he didn’t neglect his duties, she could not deny that not everyone would likely feel the same. Had he earned enough of his parishioners’ loyalty and trust to allow them to see this part of him? Was it even possible to?
“That purple is the perfect shade for that flower.” Mater examined Sarah’s embroidery. “This is going to be lovely.”
She pulled her thoughts back to the moment. “And I have you to thank for it. I’ve wanted to make something to brighten up my rooms at Sarvol House, but I could not convince my uncle to splurge for fabric or embroidery thread.”
“Is your pin money not sufficient?” Philip sat on a sofa across the way, Sorrel beside him, reclining against him. He had carried her from her bed to the adjacent sitting room but then hadn’t had the heart to leave. There was an aching worry in his attachment to her, a way of looking at his wife that spoke clearly of his struggle to remain hopeful.
“He does not provide me with pin money,” Sarah confessed, preferring to focus on her own difficulties if it would take Philip’s and Sorrel’s minds off theirs. “Scott, however, has managed to sneak me a bit of coin now and then, and I find flowers from him in my room regularly, the same sweet little purple ones each time. I’m not certain where he gets them; Sarvol House doesn’t have a conservatory or hot house.”
“Are you certain they aren’t from the blacksmith?” Philip asked with a grin. “I understand he is still quite amused by your expertise in feats of strength.”
Mater laughed. “How I wish I had been here to see that.”
Sarah liked their reaction to her rather odd undertaking far more than her uncle’s. “My uncle disapproved quite heartily. Apparently, so did the Hamptons.”
“The Hamptons disapprove of everything.” Sorrel spoke weakly, quietly. She was pale, her eyelids heavy, the darkness of illness and fatigue beneath her eyes. She looked worse every time Sarah visited.
Philip kept his arm around her, his usually jovial expression showing a bit of strain. “I’m certain they even disapprove of themselves, though they aren’t sure what to make of that.”
Sorrel smiled up at him. “At least they are in agreement with everyone else.”
“Right you are.”
Sorrel leaned against him once more, her eyes slowly closing. Mater’s forehead creased as she watched her daughter-in-law. Philip’s mouth turned down in a solemn line of worry. He looked across at his mother, such bleakness in his eyes. Mater offered an expression of empathy.
“I haven’t seen Charlie about.” Sarah hoped an innocuous topic would help ease the weight in the room. Sometimes a distraction was more welcome than anything. “I assume he is up to some mischief or another.”
“He doesn’t get himself in scrapes as often as he used to,” Mater said. “I don’t know what magic our dear Mr. Lancaster worked while Charlie was in Shropshire, but the boy came back far more grounded than when he left.”
“He fell off a roof,” Philip said. “That is about as grounded as one can get.”
Even Sorrel laughed. She didn’t open her eyes, but she spoke. “Charlie told me he is attempting to keep up with some of his studies despite being away from university. That is keeping him occupied.”
“He is like a poorly trained puppy,” Philip said. “Keeping him busy saves the furniture and neighborhood from destruction.”
“What is your approach for keeping Harold from wreaking havoc
?” Sarah asked.
“Simple,” Philip answered. “We slip an open prayer book in front of him and he is distracted for hours.”
“Be nice to your brother, Philip,” Sorrel said. “He is a little lost.”
Philip looked down at her, obviously surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I pay attention, dear.” Sorrel adjusted her position so she was lying flatter, her head now in her husband’s lap.
Philip stroked her hair. Sorrel’s hand dropped to her rounded middle, and she seemed to relax.
“I agree with Sorrel,” Mater said. “You ought to be a little less teasing with Harold. I don’t think you brothers realize the impact your needling has had over the years.”
“Is something truly the matter?” Philip asked.
“Not ‘the matter,’ simply a little difficult. He is trying to sort some things and could use all our support and patience.”
“I saw him the other afternoon,” Sarah said. “While I cannot say he had his feet firmly beneath him”—the unintentional pun very nearly pulled a smile from her—“I saw a glimpse of Harold as he’d been when I knew him before, carefree and lighthearted.”
Philip continued stroking his wife’s hair, such a tender and gentle gesture. “‘Carefree and lighthearted’? That does not sound like Harold.”
That pricked unexpectedly at Sarah. “Then you do not know him very well.”
Philip hooked an eyebrow upward. “That was your impression of him during your previous visits?”
“He was never frivolous,” she acknowledged, “but he was not so stiff and sedate as he is now. It doesn’t suit him, and it is an act, not the person he genuinely is.”
Mater watched her closely. “It bothers you that he works so hard to be vicarly?”
“It bothers me that he works so hard to be something other than himself.”
Mater reached over and squeezed her hand. “That weighs on me as well.”
Sorrel made a quiet but unmistakable noise of pain. Everyone’s attention was instantly on her. She appeared to be sleeping, despite her discomfort.
“She hurts all the time,” Philip said quietly. “I do not know how much longer she can endure this.”
“And yet we have to hope she can endure it for several more weeks,” Mater said.
Philip swallowed so thickly Sarah heard the noise even from across the room. “Scorseby looked in on her this morning.”
“What did the doctor have to say?” Mater asked.
“Being entirely off her feet has helped but not as much as he had hoped. She is not doing well.” He took a wobbly breath. “I am terrified I’m going to lose her,” he whispered.
“Oh, Philip.” Mater spoke with such heartbreak. “I don’t know how the two of you are enduring this for a third time.”
He gently moved a strand of Sorrel’s hair away from her face. A sheen of emotion glimmered in his eyes. “What am I going to do, Mater?”
“You are going to hold fast to hope,” she said. “And you are not going to give up on her.”
A shiver slid over Sorrel. Sarah slipped quietly from her seat. She took a light throw from the window seat and crossed back to the sofa, laying it carefully over Sorrel’s sleeping form.
Philip offered her a fleeting smile and a quiet “Thank you.”
Sarah nodded. “I am here quite often,” she said. “If there is anything you can think of that would bring her some comfort, I do hope you will tell me.” She looked to Mater. “And I hope you will as well. I so enjoy your company and would love to know that I am offering you something in return.”
“You have offered your companionship and your presence,” Mater said. “That is something I treasure.”
Sarah laughed humorlessly. “My uncle finds my presence noxious. I am glad you do not agree.”
“You come here as often as you can,” Mater said. “There is no reason you should be holed up in a place where you are so poorly treated.”
“I will try.”
The conversation ended with the abrupt arrival of Harold, the Jonquil Sarah’s thoughts hovered on more often than not.
“Why, Harold,” Mater said. “How good to see you. Do come in.”
Harold offered quick and excruciatingly proper bows to the room. He was back to Holy Harry, it seemed. That was disappointing.
His gaze rested on Sorrel. “Is she unwell?” he asked Philip. “Beyond the established difficulty, I mean.”
Philip shook his head. “Things are simply growing more precarious.”
“Then this is truly poor timing on my part.”
Philip’s curiosity visibly grew.
“I am called away,” Harold said. “A matter of personal business.”
“Personal?” Mater’s voice was tight. “There is nothing the matter with any of your brothers, is there?”
“No.” Harold sat beside her, setting his hand atop hers. “At least nothing of which I am aware. I simply need to . . . see to a few things.”
His hesitancy caught Sarah’s attention. Whatever was calling him away, he seemed reluctant to admit to it.
Harold addressed his brother once more. “I had come in the hope of begging a favor, which I realize is very presumptuous of me.”
“Presumptuous but intriguing,” Philip said. “What is this favor?”
“My business takes me to Cumberland, and I am hopeful you might grant me the use of a carriage and the services of one of your junior coachmen. I would be gone for at least a fortnight, perhaps a bit longer.”
“A fortnight?” Mater’s question was clearly an objection. “That brings you quite near to Christmas. Will you not be here to celebrate with us?”
“I have every intention of returning with time to spare before the holy day.”
“What if the weather turns?” Mater pressed.
“We will hope that it doesn’t.”
“And what if we are in need of a vicar?” Philip asked.
“I understand Miss Sarvol is quite adept at vicar-ing,” Harold said a touch too innocently. “I assumed she would take over my duties.”
Sarah smiled broadly at the quip. Philip shook his head in amusement, an emotion she suspected he also benefited from in that moment.
“I have arranged for a particular colleague of mine to take my place while I am away. He is a good man with a kind heart, devoted to his duties. His parish has a curate, so he can be spared for a few weeks. He and his wife will be staying at the vicarage, and I can, without hesitation, recommend them to you should you be in need of anything, even a simple word of encouragement.”
“He sounds like a saint,” Philip said.
“Seems a fair trade to me,” Harold answered. “You loan me a carriage; I provide you with a saint.”
Philip laughed. The sound roused Sorrel a bit. Philip bit back the remainder of the laugh and set his hand gently on Sorrel’s shoulder. She settled almost immediately back to sleep.
Sarah slipped closer to the door. She didn’t intend to leave; she simply felt the family would appreciate a bit of privacy.
“You are welcome to use whichever of the traveling carriages best suits your needs,” Philip told Harold. “I have no plans to go anywhere anytime soon.”
Harold nodded. “I assumed as much.”
“And,” Philip continued, “if you are bound for Cumberland, you might consider staying at Brier Hill, assuming, of course, it is near to your destination.”
Unmistakable relief touched Harold’s face. “I had hoped you might be willing to offer that. Staying at a family holding will save me money and inconvenience.”
“How soon do you intend to leave?” Mater asked.
“In the next day or two,” Harold said.
“Do not neglect to come by and bid me a proper farewell before you go.”
�
��Of course.”
“And you’ll write to me?”
“I will.” Harold rose. He offered Philip an additional dip of his head and received an overly solemn head dip in return, complete with dancing eyes and a barely concealed smile. Philip did like to tease his brother.
Harold moved toward the door.
Sarah had been put out with him for so much of the first weeks she’d been in Collingham; however, the last few times she’d been with him, her heart had tugged.
He didn’t walk past her as she expected but stopped and faced her. “May I speak with you a moment, in the corridor?”
“With me?” She couldn’t keep the shock from her voice.
He nodded.
Absolutely unsure what to expect, she stepped with him through the door. Once in the corridor, he motioned her a little away from doorway. Apparently, he did not care to be overheard.
“I wanted to thank you for not telling them about my climbing.” Was he actually blushing?
She couldn’t entirely hide her amusement. “How do you know I didn’t?”
He took her hand. “Because I know you, Sarah Sarvol. You gave your word. You’re not one to break it.”
It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to her. “I’ll promise not to break my word if you promise not to break your neck.”
A few times during their walks around the Park when they were younger, he’d smiled at her a little crooked, a little mischievous. Her heart had threatened to leap out of her chest then. Seeing that smile now, she felt that same pounding return.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Whatever is taking you away seems important.” She didn’t want to pry, but he had listened to her concerns. She wanted to give him that same listening ear he’d offered her.
“It is,” he said. “I need to spend some time sorting out how I am meant to act well my part and what that part even is.”
“And you’ll remember that your part should bring you happiness?”
He, to her surprise, took her hand and lifted it to his lips, then pressed a kiss to her fingers. “I am working very hard to bear that in mind.”
The Heart of a Vicar Page 16
