The Heart of a Vicar

by Sarah M. Eden

  She set her other hand gently against his cheek. “Be safe in your travels, Harold.”

  “Do you suppose my family would miss me if my travels did not go well?”

  Did he truly doubt that? “Of course they would.”

  He closed a bit of the gap between them, so close she could see the depth in his blue eyes. “Would you miss me?”

  She suddenly couldn’t seem to force her voice to function. Hardly breathing, she nodded.

  He kissed her hand one more time, then pulled away. He made his way down the corridor and out of sight. She was seeing more and more of her Harold. Kind. Caring. Willing to acknowledge a degree of affection for her. Attentive. Seeing her unhappiness when so many others didn’t. Wishing to help her and support her. He was coming back to himself by bits, and her heart was growing vulnerable in equal measure.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cumberland

  Harold stood atop Long Crag in clothes he’d borrowed from the coachman whom he’d borrowed from Philip. The cold air bit at him, the sting invigorating. Hilltops were quiet and peaceful. The effort required to reach them added depth to the experience. The top of Long Crag hadn’t been overly difficult to reach, but he’d managed to find a few sections that offered a bit of a challenge.

  He took in a lungful of cold air. He hadn’t realized until standing there just how much he had missed this, how much he had longed to be on a summit again. Father had sometimes taken him to the family holding in Cambria, Brier Hill, and they had gone on any number of hikes. They had, in fact, summited this very peak.

  “I think mountains may be the most peaceful places in the world,” Father had said while they were sitting on an outcropping, eating a lunch he’d packed along. “It’s rather like a church, isn’t it?”

  Harold hadn’t thought of that moment in years. Father had been more correct than Harold could possibly have realized at so young an age. Being inside the church brought him an inarguable measure of peace. It was the reason he arrived ahead of the choir on rehearsal night and so far ahead of the time for mass and evening prayers. It was the reason he sometimes went to the chapel to simply sit. That same feeling of contentment and home that he felt inside the church, he had found here, high above the world, so near the heavens.

  Philip had teased him when he’d come to claim the traveling carriage. He’d asked if Holy Harry meant to make a pilgrimage. Standing atop Long Crag, Harold realized he ought to have answered in the affirmative.

  He’d taken this abrupt holiday in search of answers, in search of himself, not knowing where precisely to look for either one. He needed to know if being more himself would lift the burden crushing his mind and heart.

  But if he discovered it did, what path did that put him on?

  The crag was empty except for him. He preferred it that way, with one glaring exception. He wished Father were there. He needed his wisdom, his insights, his reassurance.

  “How do I reconcile all of this, Father? I like being a vicar. I like helping people, when I manage it. But who I am and who a vicar ought to be don’t seem to match at all.”

  The wind blew fiercely against him. He closed his eyes and imagined his Father standing beside him.

  “What do I do?”

  That beloved voice, grown vaguer as the years had passed and time had taken its toll on Harold’s memory, echoed in his mind. “Act well your part.”

  “Sarah says what that means depends on me and the way I’m suited to that ‘part.’ Do you suppose it’s possible to rewrite a part as well defined as that of a vicar?”

  No answers came by the time he made his way back down. Feet on flat ground once more, he popped his hands into his trouser pockets and whistled a jaunty tune. The excursion had improved his spirits despite the weight on his mind. It had helped.

  His path back to Brier Hill passed directly in front of the local village inn. Music floated out of the public room, a familiar tune he’d learned from Mrs. Dalton.

  His first inclination was to remind himself that vicars didn’t generally frequent public houses. But then he shrugged. This holiday was meant as a chance to see if an unvicarly life would suit him better. He didn’t intend to do anything untoward or risqué. Taking a meal in a public room fell precisely into that “probably not wholly vicarly but also not unsavory” category.

  He stepped inside. The innkeeper welcomed him warmly.

  “A bowl of stew, sir?” he asked.

  “And a thick slice of bread, if you have it,” Harold said.

  “Right quick.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

  Harold turned to face the room. It was a lively space, though not a rowdy one. He appreciated that. Musicians sat in chairs near the fire, their tune filling the room. A few patrons sat about, tapping their feet to the music or bouncing a bit. A few others sat gathered around a table, laughing and talking.

  In a dim corner sat Philip’s coachman, a tankard in his hand, his posture slumped forward. He looked pensive. Heavens, Harold himself probably looked that way more often than not lately. Perhaps he could help.

  He approached. “May I sit with you?”

  “I’ve no objection.”

  Harold sat. “You’ll forgive me if I’m being nosy, but you look as though you have a weight on your mind.”

  He nodded slowly, silently.

  “I’m a good listener, John.” Harold hoped calling him by his Christian name would help him feel more comfortable discussing what might be a personal matter.

  John spun his tankard slowly on the tabletop. “Harriet’s marrying someone else.”

  Harold wasn’t certain who Harriet was, but he could easily piece together the situation. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Courted her for more than a year, I did. She fell for the merchant’s son though. Can’t say I blame her for choosing him. He can give her a life I can’t.” John took a long pull of ale. Nothing in his demeanor spoke of drunkenness, simply sadness.

  Harold suspected what John needed far more than the sermon a vicar might be expected to offer was a bit of sincere empathy. Harold could offer a plethora of that. “That is a difficult thing to realize, isn’t it? That the woman you love would be better off without you.”

  The innkeeper approached and set a bowl of stew and a slice of bread on the table in front of him. Harold thanked him and pulled the food closer, his stomach reminding him that he’d worked up quite an appetite on that hilltop.

  John looked over his tankard at Harold. “Did a woman pass you over too, Mr. Jonquil?”

  “Not exactly.” Harold took a bite before continuing. “We had a tenderness for each other, a growing attachment. But I had years of study ahead of me and no means of predicting how long it would be before I had a living and a means of supporting a wife and family. I knew it was better for her if she was free to give her heart elsewhere, so I ended things between us.”

  John watched him, genuinely curious. “How’d she react?”

  “Let’s just say I still have the scar.”

  John laughed so quickly and suddenly that several men around the room looked in their direction.

  “We’re discussing the dangers of disappointing a woman,” Harold told them.

  Glasses were raised. Words of support and agreement were offered.

  “You see, John? You aren’t alone in this.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Harold shook his head. “That it doesn’t. Sometimes life asks us to walk a difficult path.”

  “But don’t the good book say that the Lord will light the path?”

  It wasn’t an exact recounting, but the sentiment was correct. “It certainly does.”

  John nodded before sipping again. He wasn’t lighthearted by any means, but he did seem a little less burdened.

  “Have you had anything to eat?” Harold asked
.

  John shook his head.

  “Let me buy you a bowl of this stew. It’s delicious.”

  “No, sir. Lord Lampton paid me for my time on this trip with money enough for feeding myself.” John squared his shoulders. “I’ll not be double paid. That wouldn’t be honest.”

  “Would you consider allowing it in acknowledgment of loaning me these clothes?” Harold asked. “They were just what I needed today.”

  John shook his head firmly.

  How could he convince the man? Harold was almost unspeakably grateful to Philip for paying John’s wages during this journey, as well as the stabling of the horses and upkeep on the carriage. If Harold hadn’t been so desperately in need of answers, he never would have undertaken the pilgrimage.

  He had money enough, though, to buy John a simple meal in a humble inn. And it wasn’t an act of charity but an effort to lift him from his sorrows, to demonstrate that he was noticed and valued. But a man who’d been passed over by the love of his heart in favor of someone better heeled than he was would feel it a blow to receive anything resembling charity.

  “A wager, then?” Harold suggested. He truly was stepping out of his vicarly persona.

  John was clearly intrigued.

  Harold grinned. He turned to the musicians. “I have a challenge for you, if you’re of a mind to accept.”

  “What is it?” one asked.

  “I’d like to make a wager with my friend John, here, that you can’t pick a tavern song that I don’t know the lyrics to.”

  The flute player snorted. The others laughed.

  “A gentry cove like you?” The fiddle player shook his head in amusement.

  “It’s madder than that,” John tossed in. “He’s a vicar.”

  The laughter that followed that declaration would have quelled anyone less confident in his repertoire. The musicians conferenced, discussing in whispers what they ought to choose.

  “Make it challenging,” Harold called out.

  The other patrons paused in their activities and were waiting with palpable interest. After a moment, the musicians were ready. Harold was given three almost identical looks of pity mixed with amusement.

  “I’ve a feeling I’m going to be hungry,” John said.

  “Have faith, John.”

  The musicians hit an opening note and watched Harold as their selection moved forward. Harold let his smile grow excruciatingly slowly. As the song reached its chorus, he sang with enthusiasm,

  “So come what will, boys, drink it still

  Your cheeks ‘twill never pale.

  Their foreign stuff is well enough,

  But give me old English ale.”

  Amazement gave way to laughter around the room. Soon, everyone was joining in. The song grew gusty and heavy with joviality. As they sang on, Harold motioned to the proprietor.

  “A bowl of stew for John,” he requested. “And a thick slice of bread.”

  “Can’t believe you knew that,” John said. “I’ve sung it since I was a boy, but I ain’t Quality, and I certainly ain’t a church man. Do you know many others?”

  “Quite a few,” he confessed. “It’s an oddity in me.”

  “And do you drink a great deal?”

  He shook his head. “I have never seen the appeal of being tipsy.”

  John dug into his stew, which had been swiftly delivered. Apparently, the proprietor had not doubted Harold’s ability to win the wager. “You ain’t married, Mr. Jonquil. Is your heart still pining for the lady you disappointed?”

  It was more personal a question than any of his parishioners had ever asked him. His first inclination was to pull back, to keep that formal distance. But Sarah’s words filled his mind, censuring him however gently. “I talk to people, Harold.”

  Part of the reason he hadn’t married was his meager income. The living was not a miserly one, but the disrepair of his home and the chapel drained his finances. He simply couldn’t afford the food, clothing, or basic needs of even one other person. How often he had bemoaned the lack of financial education given to future men of the cloth. With a little more training in that area, he might have known better how to address those particular difficulties.

  A bigger part of the reason was, indeed, Sarah. He’d not met anyone he loved even half as much as he had loved her. Seeing her in Collingham the past weeks had been an exercise in contradictions. He realized the enormity of the chasm between them as well as the deep and abiding feelings he still had for her. There were no good answers.

  John was struggling with the pain of heartbreak. Harold knew that pain all too well.

  “I do still care for her,” he admitted. “And though I don’t know that anything would come of it, I hope she still cares for me as well.”

  John nodded slowly, knowingly. “The hoping is sometimes the most painful part. You can’t always know if you’re hoping in vain.”

  “I suspect I am.”

  John pointed a finger at him. “You still have a chance. I’d wager m’ boots on it.”

  “I’d hate for you to be rendered bare-footed,” Harold said with a small laugh.

  John shook his head. “Is the lady married?”

  “No.”

  “Is she near enough that you could see her again?”

  Harold nodded. “She lives in the vicinity of Collingham.”

  “Does she have a suitor?”

  “No.”

  A firm and decided nod from John. “Then you’ve a chance.”

  Harold finished off his last bite of soup. “She did seem a little sad when I told her I would be gone for a couple weeks.”

  “Ah, then. There’s something to build on.” John turned to the rest of the room. “Our vicar here has a lady he’s pining for who needs a little convincing that he ain’t a clodhead.”

  That was actually a very good explanation of the situation.

  “What advice have we for him?”

  Harold pushed his bowl a bit away, amused despite himself. “This hardly seems necessary.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Jonquil. I’ve no hope of having my Harriet’s love and devotion. I’ll not let you lose your love.”

  This, then, had the potential to be healing for John. How could he not allow the bit of admittedly embarrassing fun if it would help?

  I cannot believe I am about to encourage this. “What say you, men? How do I best re-secure my lady’s affection?”

  “Have you tried kissing her?” the flute player suggested.

  Harold nodded. He pointed to the long white scar running along the underside of his jaw. “Kissing her is what earned me this scar.”

  “Then you didn’t do it right, my friend.”

  They all laughed at that, Harold included.

  “Did she give a reason for putting you off?” a man at the neighboring table asked.

  Harold turned a little to face the room more directly. “She didn’t at the time.”

  “What did she say not at the time?” another man asked.

  “More recently, she disapproved of the way I fulfill my calling as vicar.”

  “Because you know tavern songs?” the fiddler asked.

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t know about that.”

  “No one in our parish knows about that,” John said. “Until today, if you’d asked, I’d’ve assumed you were a regular sort of vicar. Boring and a little above your company.”

  Harold winced. “That is precisely her evaluation.”

  “Sing her a chorus of ‘Old English Ale,’” the fiddler said. “She’ll change her tune right quick.”

  “She’ll change it to ‘Farewell, Fair One,’” Harold tossed back.

  Again, the room laughed. Harold was not at all accustomed to bringing smiles and amusement to people’s faces. It was a far more satisfying accompli
shment than putting them all to sleep, which was what usually happened.

  “Do you do anything else that might change the lady’s ideas about you?” a man asked.

  Harold leaned back in his chair. “I climb mountains, walls, and bridges, and a great many odd things. I once had aspirations of learning to do tricks on horseback; I still sometimes think about it. And I enjoy reading novels.” That was a peccadillo he hadn’t admitted to anyone before.

  “Those are stories, then?” a man asked. “Not the books about church or being a better person.”

  “They are stories,” Harold confirmed. “But one can learn about being a better person from reading them, either by reading a story of someone who is working to be better or about someone who chooses very poorly and turns out not good at all.”

  “Sounds like one of them parables to me,” John said.

  “Yes. The parables were, essentially, very short novels, stories that taught a principle by letting the listener learn from another’s experiences.”

  “Seems that isn’t so bad a thing for a vicar to be reading, then,” the flute player said.

  “It is, unfortunately, frowned on.”

  “I’d guess tavern songs are as well,” the fiddler countered.

  “And climbing mountains, maybe,” a man added.

  “And performing feats on horseback,” John said.

  Harold sighed and let his posture slump, something he seldom allowed. “Therein lies my difficulty, men. This elusive lady thinks me boring and stand-offish, yet the things about me that make me unique are not acceptable.”

  “If you’re asking me, Mr. Jonquil,” John said, “I like you better for knowing you’ve a few oddities about you. Makes me feel I could come to you if I had troubles and you’d not look down on me for it since you ain’t a saint or one of those angel types.”

  “I wouldn’t look down on you.” He hoped John heard his sincerity. “I would want to hear and help in any way I could.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “Now.”

  Being himself hadn’t negated his influence as a vicar in John’s eyes, but not everyone viewed the world the way this collection of jovial and friendly men did.