The Heart of a Vicar

by Sarah M. Eden

  “A fine compliment.” He set his hand on hers and looked over at Mater. “I am going to steal your visitor. And what is worse, I will not feel the least guilty about it.”

  Mater arched her brow. “What is even worse than that . . . she will not be coming back anytime soon.”

  Harold once again looked confused.

  Sarah tugged him toward the door. “I’ll explain while we walk. We’ve missed our time together these past days.”

  He went with her. “Have you enjoyed our walks, then?”

  “Immensely.”

  They stepped out into the corridor.

  “What is this about you leaving?”

  “Mater only meant I will no longer be living at the dower house,” she said. “I came from America to serve as mistress of my brother’s household. That household is now his, and he needs me. So much has fallen to him so suddenly.”

  Harold nodded. “You must be happy to be assuming the role you’d meant to assume all along.”

  “Not as happy as I’d expected to be.”

  He took her hand. He always used to do that when they talked of their lives and worries and hopes. “Do you know why you aren’t happy?”

  These were the moments she could almost believe no time had passed since their walks around the Park years ago. He listened, and he cared. She’d always loved that about him.

  “I have treasured my time with your mother. I will miss her. And I will worry about her.”

  “And what else is interfering with your happiness?” he asked.

  She had her suspicions but wasn’t willing to examine those thoughts in detail. Sarah lifted her head enough to look at him. “Have you decided what you mean to do about the livings you’ve been offered?”

  “I’ve decided what I can’t do, which I suppose amounts to the same thing.” He held her hand more firmly as they walked down the wide staircase. “My family is spread out all over the kingdom, but two of my brothers are settled here. And though I suspect Mater will find her opportunity to travel, her home is here as well. Corbin is settled within a short distance. When the family gathers together, it is always here at the Park.” He paused a moment, both his words and his steps. “My father is buried here, and his memory fills that chapel every time I am there. No matter that this living is not a grand one and I will never be wealthy, no matter that I would struggle to support myself, I cannot leave. This has always been and always will be home.”

  A warm feeling of peace spread through her at the look of contentment on his face. That had been missing for so long. “There are some things a large income cannot replace. Being home and among family is chief among them.”

  He clasped both his hands around one of hers, holding it to his chest. “But without that income, we have no . . . we couldn’t . . .”

  “Surely your father would not have wished for you to assume a living insufficient to have a family of your own.” She had known the late earl well enough to be absolutely certain he would have wanted Harold to be happy and would never have resigned him to a lifetime of loneliness. “Could the parsonage’s fields be farmed again, do you think?” The glebe would be a source of income if properly attended to.

  “With effort. It would need to be cleared and prepared, and I would need to find a family looking to work it in exchange for a portion of the proceeds. There is a small tenant home out in the glebe, but it—”

  “Is in disrepair, brought on by neglect.” Sarah set her other hand lightly on his cheek. “I wish I had the answers, Harold.”

  “As do I.”

  “How long would you need, do you think, to put the parsonage and the chapel and the glebe land and cottage to rights so you would have the entirety of your income to live on?” She wanted him to be secure, but she asked for her own sake as well. She felt very nearly certain he would consider a future between them if he felt his situation were settled.

  He turned his head enough to kiss her hand. “It could be years, Sarah.”

  “Have you spoken with Philip about any of this?” she asked.

  “He has endured enough worry of late. He doesn’t need to worry about this as well.”

  “You are good to wish to spare him,” she said.

  Harold looked at her sidelong, a smile tugging at his lips. “But a fool not to pour my worries in his ear?”

  She let herself grin back. “He might know something, Harold. He is considerably older than you are, and a father now. He has likely grown wise in his old age.”

  “Suppose instead of wise, he has grown inadvisably generous and simply makes me his next charity case.”

  She shrugged. “Then you punch him in the mouth.”

  He turned wide eyes on her.

  “I’m an American,” she said. “We’re a little violent.”

  Heavens, she loved the sound of his laugh. “I will consider divulging to him how very penniless I am, but I reserve the right to respond to any patronizing bits of charity in as American a way as possible.”

  “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  He kissed her hand again as they walked on. “I am so very glad you came back to England, Sarah.”

  “So am I.”

  He sighed but not with despondency. He had worries, but he was not beaten down by them. “It will be years before my living is set to rights.”

  “Years is not so long,” she said. “I’ll have my brother’s household to run, and you’ll have a parish to serve. When your situation is stable at last, then . . .” She let the sentence dangle unfinished.

  “Then, maybe you will meet me by our stream once more and, perhaps, this time not shove me into the water.”

  She bumped him with her shoulder. “That would depend a great deal on you, Harold Jonquil.”

  He nodded. “I will plan my words and deeds accordingly.”

  “Deeds?” She allowed a hint of a smile.

  “There were more than words exchanged that day, you’ll remember,” he said.

  “Believe me, I remember.” She’d used the exact phrase he had when they’d last spoken of their ill-fated encounter on the banks of that stream.

  He laughed again lightly. Sarah rested her head against his upper arm. She often imagined herself walking with him exactly that way day after day, crisscrossing the parish, serving the people they both loved, happily building a life together. How easy it was to indulge in those visions and forget for a few moments his straitened circumstances.

  If you’ve any miracles left, she petitioned the heavens, we could use one. I cannot bear the thought of spending years without him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I am in desperate need of a meat pie.” Harold likely could have thought of a more elegant way to enter the kitchen, but he was tired, frustrated, and hungry.

  “Have you finished your sermon, then?” Mrs. Dalton nudged a plate of pies across the worktable to him.

  He’d been holed up in his study all afternoon, bent over impossible ledgers, hounded by seemingly impossible dreams, and doing his utmost to ignore the aroma of meat pies slowly filling the house. He’d finally given up.

  “I wasn’t writing a sermon.” He gingerly set a hot pie on a tea towel, letting the warmth of it seep through to his fingers.

  “Now, that is a relief. You were in there so long I was beginning to fear you were returning to your long, prosy sermonizing.”

  He smiled a little. “I wasn’t so bad as all that, was I?”

  “I’ll just say this: I’m not complaining that you’re preaching to us more with your heart than your mind now and not merely because your heart isn’t so longwinded.”

  Harold laughed out loud; he couldn’t help himself. “‘Longwinded.’ How was I so oblivious to the congregation’s misery?”

  “You weren’t.” Mrs. Dalton always did speak her mind. “I heard you
bellyaching often enough about all the parish sleeping through your sermons.”

  “‘Longwinded’ and ‘bellyaching.’ You don’t paint a very flattering picture.”

  She shrugged. “I’d rather you not climb up the banister again because your mind’s heavy. Being direct seems the best approach.”

  “And your best chance of keeping my feet on the ground.”

  Mrs. Dalton nodded solemnly.

  Harold took a careful bite of the meat pie. It was still hot but not scalding. How was it a mouthful of good, familiar food could help settle a person’s mind? Perhaps Scorseby had an explanation. Whatever the reason, Harold was grateful.

  “If you weren’t writing a sermon, what were you working on?” Mrs. Dalton bent over her sewing, something she often did while they talked.

  Harold sat on a stool at the table, nibbling at the steaming pie. “Mathematics, which was never my best course in school.”

  Mrs. Dalton glanced at him doubtfully. “Do vicars have much use for ’ciphering and such?”

  Harold nodded. “Mostly in matters of balancing ledgers and making a tight income stretch as far as possible.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “Your money troubles.” Most servants wouldn’t feel comfortable speaking so freely. Harold was grateful Mrs. Dalton had no such qualms. He appreciated having someone to talk to.

  “I’ve made do with what I have after seeing to repairs and such, and it was sufficient for a single gentleman who didn’t wish for any of the trappings of luxury or even all the comforts of life. But it isn’t—I no longer—”

  “Say no more.” Mrs. Dalton nodded knowingly. “You’re needing that income to stretch enough to support another person, one you’d want to have all those comforts and a few of those luxuries.”

  “I want her to be happy. And not hungry, if that can be avoided.”

  “Hunger can make happiness harder to come by. But if you could manage to feed her and secure her happiness . . .” Mrs. Dalton made no attempt to hide her expectation of more information.

  “Then I would consider myself the most fortunate gentleman in all the world.”

  Mrs. Dalton leaned forward and snatched a meat pie for herself. Settling back once more, she joined him in the very informal meal. “Does Miss Sarvol feel the same about you?”

  “I never said I was speaking of Miss Sarvol.”

  “You also didn’t tell me you’d be wanting meat pies today, but I knew that, didn’t I?”

  “‘Oh’”—Harold pulled the note out long—“‘Give her a drop of the whiskey brew—’”

  Mrs. Dalton joined him to finish the musical refrain. “‘She’ll tell your future and ’twill all be true.’”

  Harold committed himself to the remainder of his meat pie. Mrs. Dalton’s cooking combined with her joyful company was the best antidote Harold knew for a case of the blue devils.

  “What are Miss Sarvol’s thoughts on your situation?” She was more than willing to keep at a fellow if he didn’t give her the information she wanted.

  Harold smiled to himself. “She said, ‘Years is not so long to wait.’”

  “Years? Are you thinking it’d take that long?”

  He wiped his fingers on the tea towel. “Based on my wrestle with numbers earlier, I would say two or three years, if I am both fortunate and careful.”

  Mrs. Dalton finished her pie. “When Mr. Dalton asked me to marry him, we hadn’t two pennies to rub together. We had a greater claim to poverty than you do. But we knew something you don’t seem to: that a challenging life together was far better than a life of comfort spent apart. There were difficult times, but we faced them together. That was worth a lot.”

  There was wisdom in that, and yet it was not an ironclad argument. “Miss Sarvol has many choices besides the poverty of a struggling vicar’s wife. She has never truly known want. It would be a tremendous change for her, one I am not certain would be welcome.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “One doesn’t simply ask—”

  “Why blasted not?” Mrs. Dalton actually sounded upset.

  Harold had not been expecting that.

  “You’ve done enough hemming and hawing trying to decide what you mean to do with your life; meanwhile, she’s kept coming back, she’s kept pushing you to be better and happier. That’s not a lady who’ll shrink at a challenge.”

  “She has no experience with economizing.” Harold had made all these arguments to himself often enough to know them without thinking.

  “I do.” Mrs. Dalton was not one to be easily shaken. “And I’d do all I could to see the two of you happy here.”

  “You think you could get along with her, then?”

  “All the town gets along with her. She’s one of the best things to ever happen to Collingham.”

  Harold couldn’t argue with that. “The blacksmith certainly thinks so.”

  “Everyone thinks so.”

  There was a pointedness to that remark that couldn’t be ignored. “And they likely all think I’m a fool for dragging my feet.”

  “Not one of us has missed the way you look at her, nor the way she looks at you.” Mrs. Dalton’s expression softened. “You’re happier since she came. Things between you were difficult at first, but her being here’s changed you for the better. And, heavens, the way she smiles when you’re near. You’re good for her too.”

  “I’d be asking her to give up a great deal.” Harold couldn’t deny that.

  “Give her a chance to make that choice rather than making it for her.”

  A surge of energy pulled him to his feet, even as his mind demanded to know what in the world he was doing. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

  “I can,” Mrs. Dalton said. “A man who’d climb walls and bridges and mountains, who’d take a hard look at himself and change what he saw because it needed doing isn’t a man who’d shrink from something simply because it was a risk.”

  “What if she turns me down?”

  “She won’t.” Mrs. Dalton spoke without the least uncertainty.

  “You know that for a fact?” He shook his head at her surprising degree of confidence.

  “I know what it is to be a woman deeply in love. I know how that feels, and I know what that looks like. I see it in her every time you’re together.”

  Harold took a breath, squaring his shoulders. “I certainly hope you’re correct.”

  “I’ll have a fruit tart waiting for you to celebrate when you return.”

  “I’ll accept, whether it’s eaten in celebration or commiseration.”

  She snapped her hand towel in his direction. “Enough dithering. Go claim your future.”

  He had gone only as far as the kitchen door before turning back. “You really believe she’ll accept a life of straitened circumstances and struggling to stretch every pound when all I have to offer her . . . is me?”

  Mrs. Dalton rose and moved to him, holding his gaze with a firm one of her own. She set her hands on his upper arms. She was more of a mother figure to him than most housekeepers were, a bit of nursemaid tossed in too.

  “You are a good man, Mr. Jonquil,” she said. “You don’t think that of yourself often enough. But she sees it. Have faith that she does, and have courage enough to give her the chance to show you as much.”

  “And you’ll help me see that she’s happy here?” He didn’t want to cause Sarah more pain than she’d already experienced.

  “I suspect she’s one who finds her own happiness, but I’ll do all I can to make this a good and happy home for the both of you.”

  “I don’t thank you enough for all you do, Mrs. Dalton.” He needed to do better about that. “I certainly don’t pay you enough.”

  Mrs. Dalton spun him around and gave him a nudge. “Go.”

  He practiced his words all th
e way to Sarvol House. Though most gentlemen would wish to find a tender way to declare their affection, he felt it best to be very upfront about his situation. That he loved her but understood if the life he had to offer wasn’t enough. That he would wait until he had money enough if that was what she wanted. That he would marry her tomorrow if he felt his situation wouldn’t bring her misery.

  However, all his carefully rehearsed words dissipated as the Sarvol House housekeeper bade him follow her up the narrow, isolated stairwell to Sarah’s former rooms, the ones in which she’d been a temporary prisoner.

  “Has she not been moved to the mistress’s rooms?” Harold didn’t mean to criticize the household, but it seemed odd to require Sarah to continue on in this corner of the house.

  “She has,” the housekeeper said, “but she has come to like her little sitting room and spends much of her day there.”

  If she could feel at home and content in a small room filled with mismatched secondhand furniture, then perhaps she would not be entirely miserable in the small spaces of the parsonage, with its humble rooms and offerings.

  The housekeeper preceded him, announcing his arrival before stepping to the side and allowing him entry. Sarah stood in the middle of the room, a mere few steps away, talking with what appeared to be her lady’s maid. He offered a bow. She curtsied.

  “I’ll see to this,” the lady’s maid said, taking up a basket at their feet. “I’ll use the chair just on the other side of the bedchamber door.”

  “Thank you, Hannah.”

  The maid slipped through the door to the side and, barely visible around the doorframe, took a seat. She wasn’t in the room, but she was near enough for propriety while still allowing a bit of privacy.

  Harold did his best to breathe. He and Sarah had spoken about the difficulties in his future but had come only to the conclusion that they could not make plans or discuss anything more between them until his finances were in better condition. He felt certain she cared for him. More than once she’d given him clear indication that she very deeply cared. Yet, taking this leap was proving more daunting than expected.

  Sarah turned to face him. Her smile was soft and welcoming, and his tension eased under its influence. “First things first,” she said. “How awful do I look in black?”