“What did you do?” Marion asked.
Sarah smiled at the memory. “That was the moment I stopped being afraid of him. He might have been only ten years old, but he was, until then, a little intimidating. Hearing him say a slightly naughty word made him seem more like an actual person.’”
Marion and Marjie laughed.
Sorrel smiled, obvious amusement showing alongside her exhaustion. “I firmly suspect there is more to Harold than meets the eye.”
Oh, there was. Depth none of them ever saw. Pain he kept well hidden. A capacity for love even he didn’t seem to recognize.
“The flowers in your hair are lovely, Sarah,” Mater said.
Sarah reached up and brushed her fingers over the small deep-purple blooms she’d tucked into twists of her hair. “Scott gave them to me. He had them left in my room this morning.”
Finding the humble handful of plum-colored flowers, which Scott must have obtained from a conservatory, it being winter, she had been touched and reassured that he had thought of her.
“Dear Scott,” Mater said fondly. “He always was a thoughtful young man.”
A quick knock on the door preceded the arrival of the housekeeper. She gave a quick curtsy. “Begging your pardons, ladies, Mrs. Jonquil has a visitor.”
The only person in the room who would be referred to that way was Marjie. She looked at them all, confusion clear in her face. She, after all, did not live in the area. Who would be visiting her?
In the next instant, Stanley stepped inside. Despite his use of a cane, his was the posture of a soldier.
Marjie stood, slowly, and turned to fully face him. She sat nearer the door than anyone else.
The room was silent. Everyone watched with bated breath. Would Stanley be upset? Would he decry her decision to leave, the danger she had courted, the difficulties she had caused him?
He released an audible breath. “Marjie,” he whispered in a voice of utter relief.
Marjie watched him, sadness in her eyes. “I am rather put out with you.”
He stepped closer to her. “I know.” No defensiveness or sharpness entered his reply.
“I have reason to be,” she added.
He stepped closer still. “I know.”
Tears sprung to Marjie’s eyes, spilling over on the instant.
Stanley set a hand softly on her cheek, brushing the tears away. “I love you.”
Marjie closed her eyes. “I know.”
Stanley pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. Marjie embraced him. He kept one hand firmly gripping his cane; he obviously needed it to maintain his balance. His other arm slipped around his wife, holding her to him.
It was so tender a moment, Sarah could have cried. It transported her years into her own past to an idyllic stream not far distant and the gentle embrace of another of these Jonquil boys. How sweet Harold had been, how very tender and affectionate. For that short time, she had felt as treasured as anyone with eyes could see Marjie Jonquil was.
Stanley didn’t release his wife, and she didn’t release him. But he looked out over the gathering of ladies. “How are you, Sorrel?” he asked.
“I have certainly been better,” she answered. “If I am truly fortunate, I have quite a few long, miserable weeks ahead of me.”
“Is it wrong to wish you misery?” Stanley asked.
Sorrel shook her head weakly. “I am wishing for it myself.”
He turned his attention to Sarah. “I had heard you were returned to the neighborhood. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Stanley. It has been a long time.” He had been on the Continent as a soldier during her last visit to England.
“It will be longer still, I am afraid,” he said. “Your brother is here to take you back to Sarvol House. He arrived just as I did.”
Had the day passed already?
“Do you have to go?” Mater asked, seeming truly sad at the possibility.
How she wished she could stay. She loved being around this family. Nothing awaited her at her uncle’s home but isolation.
“I do have to go,” she admitted. “Scott must have expended a great deal of effort to arrange this. My uncle does not like the conveyances to be taken out—” She stopped herself before finishing that sentence with “for me.” Her time with these ladies ought not end on so sad a note. “I had best take advantage of it.”
“Do come visit again,” Mater said.
“Yes, do.” Sorrel’s request brought momentary surprise to her sister and sister-in-law’s faces. She, apparently, was not always keen on visitors. Whether this change was a reflection on Sarah in particular or simply the result of facing so long a confinement, Sarah didn’t know. She wasn’t discouraged by the second possibility. She would call on Sorrel as often as she was permitted. They would both benefit from the company.
“And please ask Scott to come visit me when he is able,” Mater added.
“I will.”
She slipped out of the room and made her way quickly down the corridor, down the stairs, and to the front entryway.
Scott was waiting for her. “I am sorry to disrupt your visit. Uncle allowed me the use of the carriage, and I didn’t think it would happen again.”
She nodded. “Especially if he knew you were using it on my behalf.”
He offered his arm and led her outside. The carriage sat in readiness, the coachman atop, waiting.
“The flowers look lovely in your hair,” he said.
She brushed her fingers over them again. “I do like them.”
He nodded. “You did always like flowers.”
She did, indeed. She’d grown particularly fond of them after Harold’s offering years ago. The simple beauty of a bouquet of blooms warmed her heart.
“The dowager countess sent her wish that you call on her when you are able,” Sarah said. “I daresay she is fond of you.”
A sad sort of smile touched his face. “She has been like a second mother to me for years. I so dislike that I’m forced by Uncle’s dictates to neglect her.”
“I believe she will be grateful to see you whenever you are able to slip away.”
They were quickly situated inside the carriage. Sarah watched longingly as Lampton Park disappeared from view. How she hated returning to Sarvol House.
“Moving here has not proven quite what I expected,” she confessed. “We were going to spend so much time together exploring the area, forging friendships with the neighbors. We were going to build lives here. Now you seldom leave the library, and I either hide in my room or wander about the area alone, looking for someone to talk with.”
“We don’t have a lot of freedom here,” Scott acknowledged.
It was a sad and uncomfortable truth. “I was so eager to leave Mother’s household because I was treated like a child. Yet here, I am treated like a fungus.”
“Which is worse?” Scott asked.
“Both. Both are worse.”
He set his arm around her, a comforting gesture he’d used since childhood when she was unhappy or worried. “What do you mean to do?”
“I don’t know. But I will find an answer.”
He smiled at her, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always do.”
“Somehow, we will be happy here, Scott. I will find a way. I swear I will.”
Chapter Sixteen
Harold—Holy Harry—was pondering the very real possibility of walking away from his life in the church.
“You need to spend some time deciding who you are and what you wish to do with your life.” Mater had been right on that score, but Harold was finding the undertaking daunting.
He rolled his shoulders a few times, working out the soreness there. He’d been climbing for nearly an hour, trying to calm his thoughts and work out his frustrations. Climbing usually
did that for him and brought him pleasure as well. Today, he was struggling.
He slowly walked the length of the abbey wall. It was not part of the original building but was what remained of an outer wall enclosing the abbey yard. It was sturdy and thick, high enough to be a challenge but low enough to be regularly scaled. Over the years, he’d devised any number of ways to reach the top. He’d used a chisel and mallet several times and etched a few paths with chinks for his hands and toes beyond what occurred naturally in the weathered and battered wall. That was the easier section.
Another spot had ropes hanging from the top, ropes he brought with him each time so the weather wouldn’t destroy them. An ancient set of stairs ran along the back side of the wall; the boring way of getting up. He carried the ropes up that way. Once atop the wall, he fastened the ropes with the rivets and metal straps he’d long ago attached to the top of the wall.
Perhaps instead of becoming a vicar, he ought to have built things. He enjoyed working with his hands. Sorting out the question of how to construct something he’d never seen before brought him tremendous satisfaction. But would he enjoy doing it day after day? Especially since there was no call for fitting ropes to walls and chiseling grooves in walls. He would have to build houses and such. That didn’t hold enough appeal to pursue. Besides, he could not be a laborer and a gentleman. Losing his claim to the gentry would cause difficulties for his family and, should he be so blessed at some point, would cost his children their futures as well.
A respectable profession was best, one that brought him some happiness and fulfillment. That was supposed to have been the church. Was it still? Had it ever truly been?
Well, Harold. Time for a challenging climb. You ought to at least accomplish something today.
Over the past year, he had begun pounding various nails, thick, flattened spikes, and other things that were sturdy enough to do the trick into a far section of the rock wall. He used them to climb, grabbing them and standing on them. It had taken a little trial and error to determine how deep they had to be pounded to be reliable. They were a challenge but also made it possible to scale the wall in places where it was a little too smooth to do so unaided. When he grew tired, scaling to the top of the wall grew a little risky.
He couldn’t figure out how to use a rope and the imbedded nails and spikes at the same time. He’d been pondering it for years.
He stretched his arms, testing their tightness. He needed to climb; it calmed him. But the idea of falling to his death didn’t. He would climb only halfway this time.
He stood at the base of the wall, plotting a route. Having a plan was crucial; otherwise, he wandered about and got himself in trouble. An interesting parallel to his life.
Start with the spikes directly in front of me, then veer a bit to the left. He’d placed a few more aids there; it would make for a slightly easier climb, which his tired arms needed. Once he reached the sparser section, he’d come back down. It was a good plan.
He grabbed hold of the first spikes, ones he’d bent into something like hooks; it made for an easier beginning. He set the tips of his toes on the lowermost nails. How was it the simple act of getting his feet off the ground was so exhilarating?
He straightened his legs and reached up for the next handhold. Upward he went. Heart pounding with effort, joy expanding in his chest. He loved this.
He’d reached the height he’d intended to reach and stopped with his legs bent, arms stretched above his head, resting.
Collingham deserved better. That was the truth he could not escape. If he was unable to do better and be better, then he owed it to his neighbors, to his parishioners, to his family to step aside and let a better vicar take his place.
I need to sort myself out. I need to pursue these answers.
He retraced his path, lowering himself back down the wall. A few feet from the bottom, he let go and dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch. His lungs burned, and his arms ached with tension. But his mind, at last, was clear.
It was time to return to the vicarage and make some plans, to sort out his path.
He turned to make his way back to his pony cart. And there, not five feet away, watching him, was Sarah.
Immediately, the painful pounding started in his chest, his mind racing as he searched for the right thing to say. Holy writ wouldn’t work this time.
Her wide-eyed gaze moved from him to the wall behind him. “You were so high off the ground.”
“I only went halfway.”
She looked to him once more. Shocked. “You climb to the top?”
He pushed past her, fetching his waistcoat, jacket, gloves, and hessians from the bush where he’d laid them. Not only had she seen him scaling a wall, but she’d also spied him dressed in only his shirtsleeves, pantaloons, and the dancing slippers he’d altered specifically for climbing. They were flexible enough for easy movement. After he’d replaced the slick soles with rough leather ones, they’d also provided a useful bit of extra grip. He did enjoy making things and solving puzzles.
“Do you do this often?” She kept pace with him as he walked back toward his cart.
“A few times a week.” He braced himself for her declaration of victory in their competition. A vicar indulging regularly in such a thing was surely the unavoidable loser in any battle of suitability.
He kept his back to her and pulled on his waistcoat. “I would prefer you not whisper it about the community.”
“Why?”
He spun around, arms flung up in frustration. “Vicars don’t spend their time planning and practicing climbing walls in the most complicated way possible. They walk up the steps with dignity.” Which reminded him . . . “I need to get the ropes down, or they’ll rot.”
He passed her again but didn’t look in her eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the mockery that would likely be there. He hid his true self from the world for a reason. A man could endure only so much ridicule.
She followed him around the wall and to the stone steps.
“I concede defeat, Sarah. You are better suited to serving this parish than I am. You do the job better. I admit it.” He looked back at her as they reached the top.
“You are conceding on the basis of this?” Did she not see this as the victory on a silver platter that it was?
He walked along the top of the wall. She kept to the stairs.
“How long have you been climbing?” she asked.
“About an hour.” He spoke as he detached the ropes.
“I don’t mean today.”
He wound the ropes into large loops, hanging them over one shoulder. They were heavy against his weary muscles. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t climb, be it walls or hills or mountains. Even when I was really little, I sometimes climbed with my—” Father. He had a great many memories of challenging hikes with his father, sometimes involving scrambling up rocky crags and steep embankments.
He made his way back to Sarah. She was watching him with a bit too much curiosity. His very personal thoughts were not up for examination. He turned the topic, instead, to her. “What brought you out this far?”
She answered as they walked back down. “Scott convinced the stable staff to let me use a horse. I don’t know that it will ever happen again, and I have ridden as long as I dare. I’m on my way back now.”
Harold adjusted his heavy ropes. “Your uncle doesn’t let you ride?”
“He is still angry with me for helping Layton and Bridget marry.”
Years had passed since then. The two had been happy in their marriage, which had provided Mr. Sarvol with a granddaughter. Surely Mr. Sarvol had put his disappointment in his daughter’s defiance of his preference behind him by now.
“He has told me that my presence in his household depends entirely on whether or not he decides to allow me to remain, and he demands further restrictions all the time.” Sarah�
�s trademark optimism was not evidenced as usual.
They reached the pony cart. Harold tossed his ropes inside and pulled on his jacket. He turned to face her more directly. “How bad is life at Sarvol House, Sarah? Truly?”
Her shoulders drooped. A breath whooshed from her. “Miserable.”
“Does Scott not intervene on your behalf?” Surely her own brother did not allow her to simply be abused.
“I never see him anymore. I don’t know if Uncle is monopolizing his time or if he, in an effort to spare me further suffering, is monopolizing Uncle’s time.”
Either could easily be the case. “Whatever the reason, you are being denied the company of someone you care about, someone you had intended to be part of your new life here.”
A grateful sort of relief touched her features. “Yes, precisely. I’ve tried to pinpoint just what it was that pricked at me most about Scott’s absence. It is more than just loneliness, more than just being so very isolated in that unhappy home.”
He thought he understood, at least to a degree. “You are not merely being denied your brother’s company; you are being denied the dreams you came here to claim.”
She looked away, worry pulling at her brow. “I keep telling myself it’ll all work out somehow, but I’m beginning to struggle to believe that. I have so little control over my life. No other family members live here who might offer me respite. I haven’t wealth enough to find myself a home of my own. Should Uncle decide that tormenting me has lost its appeal, he is within his rights to simply toss me out. I could return to America, but . . .” She suddenly looked very tired. “My mother doesn’t despise me the way my uncle does, but living in her home was miserable in its own way.”
He leaned against the side of the cart. “I wish I had answers for you, but I haven’t the first idea how to help.”
“It is good just to have told someone how I’m feeling. I sometimes go all day without seeing another person.” She turned back to him once more. “It’s easy to feel forgotten.”
Sarah Sarvol was not the sort of person one forgot. He knew that all too well.
The Heart of a Vicar Page 15