Sarah had been berated by her uncle and the Hamptons and likely a few others for her silliness with the blacksmith, no matter that it had been a bit of genius and had helped a great many people. How many would disapprove of him being “an odd sort of vicar” if he let himself be more the person he was? How many would turn away instead of draw nearer? Did he dare risk it?
If being himself meant losing his parishioners, he could not justify it. But neither could he continue on as he had been if doing so meant losing himself.
Chapter Nineteen
“Then the happy little fairy took the hand of her sweet fairy friend, and the two fluttered away on the breeze in search of more grand adventures.” The little ones sitting on Sarah’s lap clapped enthusiastically.
“Another one,” the older of the siblings, at only four years old, requested.
Sarah looked to Mater. She’d come with the dear lady to call on the Joneses, the Lampton Park tenants who recently added a newborn to their brood, one who’d had a difficult first couple of months. Sarah had happily accepted the task of keeping the other children occupied while Mater visited with and offered what comfort she could to Mrs. Jones.
“If you have no objections, I would like to call again,” Mater said to Mrs. Jones. “But I also hope you will send word if there is anything at all that you need.”
The visit, then, was coming to its conclusion.
Sarah pulled the little ones in closer and said conspiratorially, “I will think of a particularly wonderful adventure for our two fairies, and I will come again and share it with you.”
Though they were clearly disappointed, they accepted the necessity of her departure. She stood once the children had scrambled down. They smiled up at her, and she winked back before crossing to Mater and Mrs. Jones.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Sarvol,” Mrs. Jones said.
“I am so pleased you welcomed me,” she said. “I do love spending time with children. And your new little one is so very handsome, even if he is giving his mother a great deal of grief.”
“Mr. Jonquil visited before he left,” Mrs. Jones said. “Told us you were likely to visit. Even said Miss Sarvol might.”
“He did?” Sarah could hardly have been more surprised.
Mrs. Jones smiled. “Seems he knows both of you well.”
“It does seem that way, indeed,” Mater said.
Harold had predicted she would call? His interactions with her of late had been softer, kinder, more tender. Her faith in him was growing. His faith in her was as well, it seemed.
They all exchanged farewells, and Mater and Sarah slipped from the cottage. They walked side by side down the lane, past a few other tenant homes. They exchanged greetings with the children who were about.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Mater said. “It was far easier to give Mrs. Jones the attention and care I wished to while the children were being so expertly seen to.”
“I do not know about ‘expertly,’ but I do enjoy children. It was a joy to be with them and a pleasure to have offered an afternoon of service to Mrs. Jones.”
“It is a very good thing we did, else Harold would have had our necks.” Mater bit back a laugh.
Her humor allowed Sarah’s to blossom as well. “I can hardly reconcile his certainty that I would call on Mrs. Jones. Harold has not always thought well of me these past few weeks.”
They turned down the lane that led along the hedge lining Lampton Park’s north lawn.
“You have pricked at him, Sarah,” Mater said. “And that is an uncomfortable experience for any person. But I do not for a moment believe he thinks poorly of you.”
Sarah tucked her scarf more closely around her neck against the bite of December’s frigid breath.
“Do you dislike him?” Mater asked the question with too heavy a tone of innocence for the inquiry to be entirely off-hand.
To Sarah’s horror, emotion gripped her heart. It did not go unnoticed. Mater slipped her arm through Sarah’s as they walked onward. Mater didn’t press for a response, but Sarah didn’t believe for a moment she had lost her interest in the answer.
Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat. “He broke my heart,” she said, her voice emerging, though barely audible.
“Would it help to talk about it? I realize I am the boy’s mother, but yours is not nearby.”
“I loved him.” Had she ever admitted that out loud? “We spent a great deal of time together—always in appropriate settings, of course—though perhaps we spent more time in the gardens, a bit isolated, than was entirely acceptable.”
Mater nodded. “I did notice you two seemed fond of each other.”
“Scott told me that he and my parents had pieced that together as well. They were wiser than I though. They realized it would not end well, but I had too many stars in my eyes.”
Mater squeezed her arm as they walked on. “In what way did it not end well?”
Heat flamed her cheeks, but she pressed on. Understanding all that had happened might help her heart finally heal. “He kissed me.”
“And that was unpleasant?”
She laughed, and what a joy it was to be able to do so. “No. That part was . . . wonderful, truth be told.” She glanced at Mater out of the corner of her eye. “That is likely an uncomfortable thing to have someone say about one of your sons.”
“Oh, my dear. Their father used to kiss me in such a way . . .” She sighed. “I would be very surprised if any of his sons proved entirely inept at it.”
“The kiss was not unpleasant,” Sarah said. “I’d hardly had time to catch my breath, though, when he said, quite without warning, that he would not ever write to me nor should I write to him, as he would not accept my letters.”
Mater’s eyes pulled a little wide, but she did not seem inclined to interrupt.
“At first, I was too shocked to say or do anything. Then, I will admit, I grew angry.” She left out the part where she’d shoved him into the stream. There was only so much a person could admit to at once. “Mostly, though, I was hurt. Deeply, terribly hurt. That is the emotion that has remained. Hurt and pain and heartbreak.”
“I will let you in on a family secret, Sarah Sarvol. The Jonquil brothers are utter dolts in matters of the heart.”
“Did they inherit that tendency from their father as well?”
Mater laughed. “Absolutely.”
Sarah felt surprisingly better having spoken of that difficult time and having received such ready support from this beloved lady. “Scott said that Harold, along with all my family, would have known from the beginning that the attachment growing between us could not be continued.”
Mater nodded. “You were both too young.”
“Yet, he pursued it, then so callously ended it.”
Mater’s features tugged in pondering. “And that has left you wondering if his attentions to you were fully sincere.”
“I confess, those doubts have entered my thoughts.”
“Then allow me to share something with you that I have not told any of his brothers, neither have I informed him that I witnessed it.”
Sarah all but held her breath. What did Mater intend to tell her?
“Harold had been happier and more hopeful during those weeks you were visiting, something I assumed had a great deal to do with you. I never did ask, but I suspected. Then he grew very suddenly distant toward the end of your stay. I suspect that change came about because he had reconciled himself to the necessity of doing what he ought to have done from the beginning: end the growing connection between you that he could not honor.”
Sarah kept her gaze forward, almost afraid to hear the remainder of Mater’s retelling.
“He didn’t talk much to anyone. He was aloof and morose. His brothers teased him mercilessly, something I am ashamed to say I didn’t realize affected him as much as it did.” Mater t
ook a moment, perhaps reflecting on those days, perhaps regretting not intervening. “I remember the day you left, Sarah. I remember because it was the last time I ever saw Harold cry.”
Sarah froze. With painstakingly slow movements, she turned to face Mater. No words emerged.
Mater’s expression turned a touch sad. “You told me that you loved him. My dear, he loved you too. I suspect that is why, despite knowing the unavoidable ending that awaited your tenderness for each other, he could not manage to end it sooner. His honor as a gentleman required that he put a period to things before you left, but your departure shattered him. And though it will sound a touch melodramatic, I will tell you that he has not been the same since. He never returned to that happy and hopeful Harold he had been. He holds back every emotion, every vulnerability. Your leaving left a hole in his heart, and he protects it fiercely.”
Sarah shook her head. She could not reconcile this. “Why, then, was he so unhappy when I returned?”
“I don’t think he was unhappy.”
On this score, Sarah knew herself to be on firm ground. “Had you been here for the dinner Philip and Layton invited Scott and I to the first few days we were in the neighborhood, you would know with perfect clarity that he was not at all pleased to see me.”
Mater smiled a bit. “I would wager his brothers did not warn him you would be there. They like to torment him. I’m certain he thinks they do so because they dislike or disapprove of him.”
“Why do you suppose they do it?”
They began walking again. “Because they love him, first of all. Secondly, because they miss him. He has been so unreachable these past years, tucked behind a façade of feigned perfection. I think they’d like to see that crack and fall away so they can have their brother back.”
Sarah had felt precisely the same way since returning to the neighborhood. Harold had become something, someone he wasn’t. No matter that he’d hurt her, she wanted the gentleman she’d loved so deeply to come back. The fleeting glimpses she’d had of him had been torturous in a way. She missed him as well. Missed him fiercely.
Mater continued. “I imagine what you interpreted as displeasure at being in your company was surprise and shock at seeing someone with whom he’d once had so personal a connection. When he doesn’t know what to do, my Harold pulls into himself. He often comes across as almost unbearably confident, perhaps even a little arrogant. But there is so much doubt and uncertainty in him.”
“Perhaps on this journey of his, he will find more reason to value himself. He truly does deserve to be happy.”
“So do you.” Mater patted her arm. “I suspect you hide from all of us just how unhappy you are in your current circumstances.”
At the reminder, the tension in her shoulders increased tenfold. She hadn’t spoken with anyone about her situation in detail, other than Harold. He had asked, had listened. That had been his way years earlier as well. He saw her when others didn’t. He heard her when she struggled to find her voice. He had a way of showing her with ease that he cared. “Life at Sarvol House is more miserable than I expected it to be. I seldom see Scott, and when I do, he always looks so burdened and unhappy. He has stopped having flowers sent to my room. The house is growing almost unbearably lonely and unhappy, but what can I do? Ladies are, unfortunately, very much at the mercy of our male relatives, and my uncle happens to be a miserable person.”
“The law and Society give so much control over our lives to the men around us,” Mater said. “But, my dear, that does not mean we have no choices.”
Sarah wasn’t certain if Mater had something particular in mind or was speaking more generally. They continued onward toward the Park, now within view.
“I do have the option of returning to America, though I don’t particularly wish to.”
Mater’s nod was more acknowledgment than agreement. It was also encouragement.
“Some ladies marry to improve their circumstances.” Thinking through her choices aloud might help Sarah find one she could cling to. “Being a governess is acceptable work for a lady, and I do like children. Being a lady’s companion is also a possibility. Or I could stay where I am but find reasons to be away from the house as often as possible.”
None of the options were ideal, but the reminder that she had choices helped her feel more hopeful.
“If you ever need a reason to get away, simply say your presence has been requested at Lampton Park. I will happily corroborate your story, even with no warning.”
“I wouldn’t wish to impose on you,” Sarah said.
“If I told you we have flowers in our conservatory, would that help?” Mischief twinkled in Mater’s eyes.
“Are you bribing me?”
Mater nodded without a hint of shame.
“I will likely take you up on your offer more often than you bargained for,” Sarah warned.
Mater patted her arm. “You are always welcome here, Sarah. Always.”
A carriage sat at the house’s front portico. The Park, it seemed, had visitors. It was the perfect excuse for Sarah to slip away.
After a quick embrace and a word of farewell, Mater moved toward the house while Sarah turned to make her way back to Sarvol House.
“The law and Society give so much control over our lives to the men around us, but that does not mean we have no choices.”
She had choices. But which one was the right one?
Chapter Twenty
“If I’m being too familiar, Mr. Jonquil, you just tell me. I don’t want to overstep myself.” John tossed him a look of concern. They had been rather chummy since their time in the public room a few nights earlier.
“I have no concerns on that score,” Harold said. “Though I would like to know where we are going.”
John grinned mischievously. “George—you met him at the inn; he plays the fiddle—told me there’s an old stone wall out this way that the people here have a tradition of climbing. Reaching the top is a feat they celebrate since not many manage it.”
“You certainly have my attention.”
They walked along a narrow footpath in the direction of what sounded like a gathering of people. A din of voices, in fact. Harold pushed down the nervousness that always surfaced when faced with large groups. Vicars were supposed to interact; he needed to do so.
“You said those nights ago that you like climbing things, bridges and walls and such.”
Ah. “George wants to see if I can climb their infamous wall.”
“Everyone wants to see,” John corrected.
Up ahead was, indeed, a gathering of men and boys standing near the base of a large, incomplete stone wall, most likely a ruin of a structure built long ago. Not unlike the abbey ruins. But was this one safe? A crumbling wall ought not be climbed, no matter the applause one might receive for being successful. He’d have to assess things before agreeing to the challenge.
The waiting men met him with welcomes and handshakes. Those he hadn’t met at the inn or from walking about the small hamlet near Brier Hill were introduced to him. George repeatedly referred to him as “the climbing curate,” which was both clever and a bit ridiculous. Harold wasn’t a curate, though he once had been. And climbing was not his defining characteristic, though it was certainly a notable one, considering how unusual it was.
“We call this Cuthbert’s Wall,” George said once Harold had been introduced to everyone. “Been here since our grandfathers’ time, probably longer.”
That could be a good or bad thing, depending on how well it was built and how poorly it had weathered.
“Climbing it is a matter of pride, though few reach the top.”
Harold nodded his understanding as he inspected the wall. He had, on a number of occasions when he was young, climbed the walls of Lampton Park. This wall was not nearly as high as those. It was lower than many of the walls at the abbey
as well. “Is it sturdy, or does it have a tendency to crumble?”
An older man standing among them spoke up. “I’ve not ever seen a single stone come loose, and I’ve been watching people climb it for sixty years.”
That was reassuring. “How many people have reached the top in those sixty years?” Knowing the odds wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“Not many,” the man said. “Not many.”
Harold could understand why. The wall was fairly sheer, without a lot of grooves for one’s fingers and toes. And unlike a mountain or a steep hill or a bridge, it shot straight up with little angle of incline to ease the way. This would require a great deal of care. A casual climber, one who had not made any kind of study of it, would struggle tremendously.
“Have many been injured in the attempt?”
Several nods answered his question.
Hmm. He walked along the wall, studying it. He found a section that was a bit more uneven, a bit rougher. He could see several places that would serve as more than adequate toe holds and a good number of stones jutting out enough for him to grip with his fingers.
He spied a good gripping spot at eye level. Left hand there. Another good spot nearby would do for his right hand. He had a couple of good beginnings for his feet. He mentally picked out his next spot, then the next. The path he’d need to take upward meandered a bit, but that wasn’t unusual. A climber had to go where the wall let him. This wall, he felt certain, was going to let him.
“I’ve a farthing that says the Climbing Curate can’t conquer our wall,” someone in the crowd said.
“I’ll match that,” John said, “but I’m betting he’ll make it.”
More wagers were tossed around, some in support of Harold, some in support of the wall. Harold couldn’t help thinking back on the wagers surrounding Sarah’s feigned feat of strength. He’d been so sure in that moment that she was in the wrong. He felt differently now. He’d seen the good she’d done.
Harold turned from the wall to face the crowd. “I’m not certain I can make a climb if wagers are involved. As a man of the cloth, I’m more or less required to frown on such things. However . . .” He let the word dangle.
The Heart of a Vicar Page 18
