“Not going anywhere,” she said with a feeble laugh. “I put off my powders specifically so I could witness this. Do not disappoint me.”
Philip rose but without his usual fluid grace. He was actually shaking. Harold didn’t think he had ever seen that before. Mater, crying as well, carefully laid her blanket-wrapped bundle in Philip’s arms.
“Which one is this?” Philip’s voice shook.
“The oldest,” Mater said. “Your son.”
“My son,” he whispered.
Catherine approached. Philip adjusted his tiny boy into one arm, and Catherine set the baby girl in his other one. “Your daughter,” she said.
Philip shook his head, amazement and awe and utterly raw emotion in his face. He looked to Sorrel. She smiled and nodded.
He turned to Scorseby. “They’re healthy? We needn’t be terribly afraid for them?”
“They were born a bit before their time,” Scorseby said. “And they are very small. But I can honestly say I’ve never seen two healthier infants under those circumstances. I am a man of medicine and do not often speak in terms of miracles, but this comes as near to one as ever I’ve seen.”
Philip’s gaze dropped to his bundles. “Twins,” he whispered.
Mater set an arm around him, her head resting on his shoulder. Catherine watched with her hand pressed to her heart. This room, where so much heartache had been anticipated, was filled in that moment with joy and hope.
Sorrel locked her gaze with Harold’s. She motioned him over. He obeyed.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said.
“Of course.” He sat in the chair nearest the bed, leaning near enough to hear her without requiring that she strain her obviously diminished strength.
“I want the babies to be christened as soon as Crispin arrives. Catherine sent word to him this morning. I may very well be unconsciousness, thanks to the powders. There is yet a chance I will not be—” She paused for a breath, though whether to clamp down emotion or because she lacked the strength he did not know.
“Christenings do not need to be performed so soon,” Harold reminded her. “There is time enough for you to regain your strength.”
“We lost the others, Harold. Little ones for whom there was not time enough.” Her next breath shook. “I cannot rest easy until I know all is—I need to know all is in order, that everything is seen to for these dear little miracles. I need to know.”
“If you wish for it, I will make certain the rites are performed the moment Crispin gets here.”
She still did not look relieved. “Philip will object. He will insist on waiting until I am able to be present.”
“He wishes to share that moment with you, just as you wished to share this one with him.” Harold’s gaze returned once more to his brother holding his tiny children in his arms.
“There is every possibility I will not ever be able to share that with him.”
“Please, do not—”
“You are a vicar, Harold. You know better than any of us that death is part of life. I will not pretend otherwise.”
“For Philip’s sake, I think you ought to pretend at least a little.”
Her gaze, though clouded with pain, pierced him. “You will not speak as bluntly of this to Philip as I have to you. If I hear that you have, I will either beat you to a pulp when I recover or haunt you mercilessly if I do not. And do not think for a moment I don’t mean that.”
Harold nodded, even smiled a little.
“Crispin and Catherine have been chosen as godparents. Philip and I have already discussed names, though we did not anticipate needing both.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “See to it the christenings are performed. I need you to promise me.”
“I give you my word.”
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and a look of peace settled over her pained features. “Your brothers like to torture you about your profession, but you have the heart of a vicar, Harold. Do not allow them to torment you into doubting that.”
“I am only now beginning to know what the heart of a vicar really is.”
She nodded, her eyes still closed. “Miss Sarvol?”
“Sarah has proven a demanding and enlightening tutor.”
“She is good for you, Harold.”
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “And you are good for Philip. Please do all you can to not leave him here alone.”
She slowly opened her eyes once more. “Too much has been demanded of him already. I do not believe the heavens mean to ask this.”
“I will petition them thoroughly,” Harold said.
She nodded slowly, the tension in her jaw growing noticeably. “Ask that horrid doctor to come over here again. I cannot bear this any longer.”
Harold rose and stepped away from the bed. He passed, not directly to where Dr. Scorseby was stirring powder into a glass of water but via a path that took him to Philip and Mater first.
“You had best go rejoin Sorrel,” Harold said. “Scorseby will need to administer her powders soon.”
Philip wasted not a moment. He returned to the bed and carefully laid one of the children in Sorrel’s arms. He kept the other in his own. He placed himself beside her, and she rested her head against him.
Mater remained at Harold’s side. She put her arms around his middle and embraced him. “Thank you for being here with them.”
“Witnessing this moment,” he said, “I consider myself deeply blessed to have been here.” Dr. Scorseby looked over at him. Harold motioned to Sorrel and nodded. The doctor took up his concoction and crossed to the bed.
“She will be able to rest now,” Mater said. “And she will heal.”
“I believe she will.” He would move forward with unshaking confidence in the mercy of heaven. Though he knew good people too often slipped away far sooner than seemed fair—his own father’s passing had come at a cruelly young age—having faith in the possibility of a miracle was a source of strength.
He would believe, and he would help his family find reason to believe as well.
Chapter Thirty
When Sarah’s father died, all the household had mourned deeply and sincerely. The neighborhood had grieved his passing. Having spent the last few days at Sarvol House, watching as the trappings of mourning were donned and displayed, Sarah could not help but note the difference. Father had been beloved for his kindness and his generosity. Uncle had been despised for his arrogance and cruelty. While no one was crass enough to celebrate his passing, there was no real feeling of loss. Indeed, Sarah sensed a great deal of relief among the staff.
She saw very little of Scott but understood. He was charged with making arrangements for the funeral and burial. He, as heir, would meet with solicitors and debtors and any number of people as he officially assumed the reins of the estate. Servants would also need to be hired to fill the gaps in the staff left by Uncle’s shortsightedness. And the household budgets would need to be re-evaluated. Those fell to the mistress of the estate, the role she had come to England with Scott to fulfill. The time had come to do so.
That, however, meant leaving the dower house. She grieved that; Mater had become like a mother to her in many ways, as well as a friend and a companion during a time when Sarah had felt very alone. And now she was leaving Mater alone.
Knowing she could delay the inevitable no longer, Sarah made her way back to Lampton Park to make her explanation and gather her belongings.
All of Collingham was abuzz with the news that Philip and Sorrel were the proud, and likely shocked, parents of newly arrived twins. Though no one seemed entirely certain of Sorrel’s condition, all were firm in their belief that the tiny newborns were hale and hearty. Knowing all of that, Sarah did not need to be told where she would find Mater.
The sight that met her in Sorrel’s bedchamber would hav
e warmed even a frozen heart. Philip sat beside Sorrel’s bed in a rocking chair, a new addition to the room, holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped baby in his arms. Mater sat not far distant in a high-back armchair holding an identically-bundled little one. Sorrel slept under the vigil of her husband and mother-in-law.
Philip spotted Sarah first. “Come in,” he said eagerly. “You haven’t met my children yet.”
A glow of amazement and pride shown in his eyes when he spoke those words: my children.
“I haven’t,” she said, “though they are the talk of the neighborhood, I assure you.”
“As well they should be.” Philip pulled his gaze away from his armful and back to her. “This one, you understand, is bald, which will cause any number of whispers in Society.”
“A tragedy of immense proportions,” Sarah said with a laugh. She crossed to him, gazing down at the tiny baby. “Which of your dear ones is this?”
“The oldest.” Philip tucked the blanket back enough for Sarah to see the baby better. “I wish I could say he was the better behaved of the two, but he woke his mother earlier, which I think was inexcusably inconsiderate of him.”
Oh, this was one besotted father. Sarah could not hide her amusement and delight. “What is his name?”
“Kendrick Lucas Crispin Jonquil.”
Sarah shook her head solemnly. “His hand will cramp every time he signs a letter.”
“Harold managed to say the entire thing during the christening without falling asleep once. I was impressed, I tell you.” Philip managed to make the absurd declaration with an entirely solemn expression.
“You should never have doubted our vicar,” Sarah said.
Philip nodded, even as he began rocking his chair back and forth. “You are right on that score.” He smiled up at her. “You should meet my daughter. She’s an angel.”
Sarah turned to face Mater, who clearly held back a laugh. Understanding the amusement for what it was—pleasure at seeing Philip so incredibly happy—Sarah grinned and rolled her eyes.
“Don’t think I don’t see the two of you over there,” Philip said, “enjoying yourselves at my expense. It is not my fault I have two perfect children.”
Mater met Sarah’s eyes once more. “Shall we remind him of that declaration when they are both three years old and wreaking havoc on his household?”
“Yes, and again when they rub their jam-covered hands all over his silk waistcoat or manage to untie in mere moments what his valet labored over for hours and his irreplaceable Wilson storms from the house never to return.”
“Nonsense,” Philip said. “They won’t ever do anything wrong.”
Mater simply laughed. Sarah closed the rest of the distance between them, wishing to meet Philip and Sorrel’s second little miracle. Mater adjusted so Sarah could better see the tiny girl.
“This one is not bald.” Sarah spoke loudly enough for Philip to easily overhear. “I think you should keep her.”
“She is too well behaved to do anything but keep her,” Philip said. “Which is a good thing. Scorseby informs me he does not permit his patients to change their minds about these things.”
Sarah shook her head at his teasing. The baby was not sleeping, but neither was she fussing. She simply lay in her grandmother’s arms as content as anything.
“This is Lady Julia Elizabeth Jonquil.” Mater brushed the tip of her finger over Lady Julia’s thick, dark hair. “She is named for me, you realize.”
“I bet you thought Mater’s name was actually ‘Mater,’ didn’t you?” Philip said from across the room. “That is a common mistake.”
Sarah lowered her voice. “It is good to see him back to his old jesting self, isn’t it?”
Mater nodded. “The weight of the last months was crushing him.”
Sarah pulled over a nearby chair. “How is Sorrel?” She kept the question quiet, not wishing to upset Philip should the answer be distressing.
“She is in a great deal of pain, which is expected. Scorseby is concerned about her hip; it is apparently very far out of joint, something he had known was possible but had hoped to avoid.”
“Can anything be done?”
Mater nodded minutely. “Once we know better how well and how quickly she will recover from the toll of the past months and the delivery itself, Scorseby means to recommend some remedies. None are guarantees, and some are apparently far more difficult than others, but he assures us there are options.”
“And he feels she will survive?” Sarah held her breath, waiting for the answer.
“Yes. The first day afterward was touch and go. Heavens, I thought Philip was going to lose her after all. But she rallied. Her strength never ceases to amaze me.” Mater looked over at her son once more. “Both their strength. Life has taken so much away from them.”
“And has, at last, given something back.”
“At last.”
Sorrel stirred a little. Philip, keeping Kendrick in one arm, set his hand atop Sorrel’s. She settled again.
“You have raised good sons, Mater,” Sarah said. “Every last one of them.”
“That is their father in them.”
“It is,” she acknowledged, “but it is you as well. Your influence, your efforts, your love.”
Mater pressed a kiss to her little bundle’s head. “How is Scott? What a burden he must be carrying.”
“He is a little overwhelmed, yes, but you would be very proud of how well he is carrying it all.”
Mater watched her a moment, pondering, piecing things together. Sarah had discovered that about her during their weeks together: Mater sorted people’s puzzles very quickly.
“He needs you to fill the role you came here to fill.” Mater nodded. “Having a mistress of the estate will be invaluable to him right now.”
“I hate the idea of leaving the dower house,” Sarah said. “And I was so looking forward to our journey when summer came.”
Mater shook her head. “You will have finished your mourning period by then, and your household will have made its transition. We can still make our journey if we wish to.”
“I would like that very much indeed,” Sarah said.
Echoing from the corridor came the jaunty strains of “Down among the Dead Men,” the tavern song Sarah had hoped Harold knew. It seemed he did.
“Who is that?” Philip asked with a deep chuckle.
“Harold,” Sarah said.
“Harold?” Philip sputtered out the name.
“He enjoys tavern songs,” she said. “His housekeeper has confirmed it.”
Philip shook his head. “Sometimes I think we never knew a thing about him.”
“Sometimes,” Mater answered, “I think you’re right.”
Harold stepped inside in the next moment. Sarah’s heart threatened to simply burst from her. It did that when he entered a room or smiled at her. Sometimes all she had to do was think of him and her pulse pounded an anticipatory rhythm that filled her entire being with a tingly sort of hope. She’d loved him for years, but somehow, that love simply grew day by day.
He stood a few steps inside the room, watching them all with quiet mirth. “I thought I might discover a soiree in here. Our Sorrel is so remarkable a hostess, she can sleep through the gathering and still be the belle of the ball.”
Sarah shrugged. “At the moment, I believe she is sharing the spotlight with Lady Julia and the bald one.”
Philip laughed out loud, which set Sorrel stirring and Kendrick fussing in his arms. He held his son against his chest, rocking him and rubbing his back even as he continued to grin. “‘The bald one.’ He will never live this down.”
“Well, if he had been born with hair, none of this would have happened.” Harold shook his head in mock scolding. “I think that makes this Kendrick’s fault.”
“I agree,” Sarah said so
lemnly.
“I see you two have joined forces.” Philip had managed to settle his son once more. “I can’t decide, though, who is the good influence and who is the bad.”
“I am the good,” Sarah declared at the same moment Harold said, “Sarah is the good.” That set the room to laughing again, which made Kendrick cry, which woke Sorrel.
Philip looked over at his wife. “Harold did it.”
She smiled vaguely, her eyelids heavy and half closed. “Did Harold keep his promise?”
“What promise is that?” Philip asked.
“The christening,” Harold supplied.
“He performed it yesterday,” Philip told her. “Over my objections, I will point out. Even a small delay meant you would be able to be there.”
Sorrel looked to Harold, a firmness in her gaze despite her continued grogginess.
“I gave my word,” Harold told her. “I would never break it, no matter Philip’s thoughts on the matter.”
Philip looked to Sorrel once more. “He told me that given the choice between siding with you or with me, he hadn’t the least hesitation in choosing you.”
“As I will do every time,” Harold answered.
Philip’s expression softened. “Good.”
Harold turned to Sarah. He had a way of looking at her lately that melted her to her core. It was equal parts tenderness and a deep sort of longing she had a hard time describing. Whatever the exact emotion beneath this renewed pull she felt, she yearned for it when he was gone and cherished it when he was nearby. “How are you? This week has not been easy for your family.”
“Nor for you.” She rose from her chair and moved to where he stood near the doorway. “A funeral two days ago and two christenings yesterday.”
“Serving can be exhausting, but it is also fulfilling. I would rather be very busy in good works than bored.”
“Spoken like a Jonquil,” she said with a laugh.
He looked at her with confusion.
She slipped her arm through his. “I don’t know a single Jonquil who can bear not being busy. And not one of you can resist helping anyone and everyone who needs it.”
The Heart of a Vicar Page 28
