Page 1 of Fair as a Star

Somerset, England

July 1864

Beryl Burnham stared out the window of the carriage as it rolled down the narrow country road that ran through the center of Shepton Worthy. Her gaze drifted over the familiar landscape. More than a year had passed since she’d last seen the ancient curving oaks, the rhododendrons rising as high as the cottages they flanked, and the damask roses drooping over low garden walls. Nothing had changed. The village looked as it always had—a veritable pattern card of pastoral perfection.

The only thing that had ever stood out had been Beryl herself.

And now she was home.

It was a suffocating sensation, as much as a joyful one.

What she needed was a moment of fresh air. A chance to stretch her legs, and to break free from the cloying sense of inevitability that had settled over her the moment their train had pulled up to the village’s small platform halt.

She lowered the window as the carriage passed the village church. It was a narrow building of worn gray stone, with a Gothic severity to its angles that was belied by the riot of red, blue, and yellow wildflowers that brightened the churchyard, and the soft, fragrant blooms framing the heavy wooden doors.

The open doors.

“Stop the coach!” she called out to the driver.

Across from her, Aunt Hortensia was startled from her nap. “What’s this?” Her hooded eyes snapped open as the carriage came to a halt. “Have we arrived?”

“Very nearly,” Beryl said. “Only another mile.”

“Another mile?” Aunt Hortensia withdrew a handkerchief from her beaded reticule to dab at her mouth. She was a stately woman on the other side of sixty who had the unfortunate habit of drooling as she dozed. “Then why have we stopped, pray?”

“It’s the church,” Beryl said. “The doors are open.”

“What on earth does that signify?”

“It means that Mr. Rivenhall is presently inside. I must pay my respects.” Beryl was surprised by the urgency of her desire to see him. She and Mark Rivenhall had always been friends. But this was something else. Something different. It coiled tight inside of her. A need so keen that it cut like a knife. As if seeing him would fortify her for what was to come.

And perhaps it might.

Mark had a knack for lifting her spirits. For making her smile, whether in person, or through the many letters he’d written to her during her absence. Sweet, humorous letters. They’d arrived with some regularity, as reliable as Mark was himself. She’d come to depend on those letters. To look for them each week, with as much eager anticipation as a child looking forward to a treat.

“One of the Rivenhall triplets?” Aunt Hortensia gave a scandalized blink. “Most certainly not. You aren’t fit to be seen, my girl.”

“I look well enough.” She was wearing one of the dresses her aunt had purchased for her in Paris. A white cotton day dress, with billowing sleeves and wide flounced skirts trimmed in the same grass-green satin ribbon as the delicate green belt that circled her waist. It was all a bit wrinkled, truth be told, and she’d perspired under the arms a little, but Mark wouldn’t care. He was a curate. A man of God. Not the sort to heed such things.

“Nonsense,” Aunt Hortensia scoffed. “Mr. Rivenhall is soon to be your brother-in-law. You may call on him after you’ve bathed and changed from the journey. After you’ve seen your parents—and your betrothed.”

“Mr. Rivenhall won’t mind.” Beryl opened the carriage door before the liveried footman could reach it to assist her. “Go on without me, Aunt. I’ll walk the rest of the way home.”

Aunt Hortensia’s voice rose. “Beryl Elizabeth Burnham—”

“I promise I’ll be quick.” Beryl permitted the footman to hand her down. “Don’t wait for me.”

With that, she swung open the rose-festooned churchyard gate—stirring a waft of heady perfume into the sultry summer air—and walked the short distance to the front doors of the church. Voices emanated from within. An elderly lady was complaining loudly. Beryl recognized the distinctive shrill tone. It was one of the village’s foremost gossips, Mrs. Doolittle, venting her spleen about her neighbor.

And in response, an equally recognizable deep baritone, uttering a monosyllabic assent here, and a sympathetic murmur there. No one was as understanding as Mark Rivenhall.

He stood with his back to Beryl, his broad shoulders outlined in his cassock, and his seal-brown hair carelessly mussed from too often raking his fingers through it. He was as sweetly familiar to her as Shepton Worthy itself.

The Rivenhall triplets was a name often used to describe the three brothers. But they weren’t triplets at all. They’d only been born one year after the other in quick succession. First Henry, now a baronet. And then Jack, a soldier who had tragically met his end last year in Bhutan. And finally, Mark, curate to the current vicar of Shepton Worthy.

“She didn’t even apologize,” Mrs. Doolittle said. “You see why you must intervene. If you don’t, I shall withdraw from the committee. And the fete will be the worse for it, I can promise you—” She broke off abruptly at the sight of Beryl advancing up the nave. “Miss Burnham!”

Mark appeared to still for an instant—in surprise, Beryl hoped—before slowly turning to look at her. The expression in his blue eyes was difficult to read, but the smile that spread over his face was welcoming enough. It was the same ready smile with which he greeted all of his parishioners. “Miss Burnham. I wasn’t aware you’d returned.”