Page 21 of Fair as a Star

Too long.

Black laughed. “She defies description, I see.”

Heat rose under Mark’s collar. “Miss Burnham is all that’s good in the world, is what I was going to say.”

A grin remained on Black’s face, but in his eyes shone an all-too-knowing glint of sympathy. “If that’s the case, then I must congratulate your brother on his good fortune.”

“Yes.” Mark somehow managed a smile of his own. It was as false as his words were true. “My brother is a fortunate man.”

Beryl entered the church to find it teeming with industry. The ladies on the committee to oversee this year’s summer fete were gathered near the front, heaps of flowers, ribbon, and greenery strewn about them on the pews and the floor.

Smoothing the skirts of her blue grenadine afternoon dress, Beryl slowly approached. It had taken all of her courage to come today, knowing what the gossip had been.

But it wasn’t only the gossip that had given her pause.

It was the prospect of encountering Mark again. She hadn’t seen him since that dreadful day on the riverbank. He’d been compassionate then, just as he always was, but she hadn’t any doubt that, when given time to reflect on the matter, his opinion of her would have altered.

How could it not? She’d told him everything. Had wept and felt sorry for herself and made herself ridiculous.

Leave this burden with me for a day or two, he’d said.

That had been nearly two full days ago. She hadn’t seen him since.

Granted, the preparations for the summer fete were in full swing. And Mr. Venable was ill, as were several other people in the village. Mark had more than enough to occupy his time without troubling himself over Beryl’s problems.

And really, she hadn’t expected him to solve anything for her. She knew there was no solution. What she wanted—needed—was his friendship. And after that day on the riverbank…

She very much feared she may have lost it.

“Miss Burnham!” Having caught sight of Beryl, several of the ladies called out in greeting.

Mrs. Doolittle was among them, her eyes as shrewdly assessing as ever. “Have you come to offer your assistance?”

“I have,” Beryl said. “I hope I’m not too late?”

“Your timing is impeccable.” Mrs. White, another elderly village lady, stood next to Mrs. Doolittle. Her smile of greeting was a bit warmer, her plump face aglow. “I was only this moment mentioning your name to Mrs. Malvern. We feared you wouldn’t have the time to assist us, what with your wedding to plan. Which is a great pity, for we could very much use your knees.”

Beryl gave her a bewildered look. “My knees?”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Malvern said. Wife of the village draper, she presented a fashionable picture in her matching skirt and paletot of rose-colored percale. “Mr. Rivenhall has given us permission to decorate inside the church this year. We’ve just been determining who among us is best suited to adorn the ends of the pews with flowers and greenery.”

“One must kneel down,” Mrs. White added in a hushed tone. “So difficult on the knees, you know, when one is a lady of a certain age.”

Mrs. Doolittle nodded in brisk agreement. “Youth is required for such tasks.”

“I’d be glad to do it,” Beryl said. “And any other tasks you haven’t yet assigned.” She addressed the rest of the ladies as a whole. “I apologize it’s taken me so many days to make an appearance.”

“We’ve managed well enough so far.” Mrs. Malvern briefly clasped Beryl’s hand. “But it is good to have you back, Miss Burnham. And not only for selfish reasons. Though I do hope you’ll still be contributing your whitework to sell at the fete?”

“Oh yes.” Beryl brightened. “I’ve embroidered ever so many handkerchiefs, several sets of linens, and a half dozen little baby smocks made of the softest muslin I could find.” She’d been working on them all year, stitching tiny images of flowers, honeybees, and dragonflies onto the edges of the fabric in delicate motifs.

“Splendid,” Mrs. Malvern said. “Though I don’t know how you found the time. If I was ever so fortunate as to go to Paris, they’d have to drag me away from the shops.” She tipped her head closer, sinking her voice. “Speaking of which, I can’t wait to learn more about these Parisian gowns of yours. Is it true that Mr. Worth designed your wedding dress?”

“He did, ma’am. It hasn’t yet arrived, but I expect it to be delivered soon.”

“When it does, you must bring it to the Emporium. My husband is anxious to have a look at it. That is, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”

“No, indeed,” Beryl said. “I’d be glad to show it to him.”