Page 26 of Fair as a Star

And it was because of him. Because she was holding his hand.

His fingers curled instinctively around hers. “Beryl, I—”

She spoke at the same time. “Mark, why did you—”

They both broke off. The tension between them was palpable.

“Forgive me,” he said gruffly. “You go first.”

Beryl’s gaze dropped from Mark’s to settle on Ernest. The little dog had made himself comfortable in her lap, curling up in a tiny ball. And beside him, her hand settled in Mark’s much larger one. Warm and safe. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

And the most exciting.

Her heart was fluttering, and her face had warmed with a self-conscious heat. “Why did you say that he would be good for me?”

Mark was quiet a moment. “Because of something you told me that day by the riverbank. I don’t mean to remind you—”

“It’s all right.” She supposed she should have released his hand. She was no longer introducing him to Ernest. But she wasn’t yet ready to lose the comfort of Mark’s grasp, and he seemed in no hurry to let her go. “What did I say?”

“That, at its worst, the melancholy you experience is akin to feeling alone and unloved.”

“It is, unfortunately.” She could think of no better way to describe it. That feeling of sadness that encroached in her vulnerable moments. She’d been attempting to evade it for years. By taking up various charitable tasks. By visiting sick villagers, or volunteering for various ladies’ committees. As if, by keeping busy, she could outrun it somehow.

And then night would come, or those early hours in the morning, still abed as the first glints of sunlight shone through her chintz curtains. It was in those moments of stillness that the sadness preyed on her the worst. Then, there was no way to escape it.

Mark’s thumb moved over her knuckles in a reassuring caress. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he said. “Thinking about you.”

She slowly lifted her gaze back to his. She was surprised by the warmth she found in his eyes. By the way the color had seemed to change—to darken.

Odd that.

All these years, she’d thought Mark’s eyes were the same shade of blue as Henry’s. But that wasn’t true at all. Where Henry’s were hard as sapphire, Mark’s were soft as velvet. A warm, saturated blue, like the wildflowers on the banks of the Worthy.

She inhaled an unsteady breath. Her new French corset must be laced too tightly. It was compressing her vitals, making her insides go tight and trembly. “You’ve taken my problem very much to heart.”

“Of course, I have. You’re my—” A slight pause. “You’re my friend. I think the world of you, Beryl.”

“I think the world of you, too,” she said. “I missed you in Paris.” The words came before she had the good sense to stop them. “I miss you now, on the days that I don’t see you. You were right about my needing someone to talk to.”

Mark was always right. It’s what made him so good at his job. He always knew just what to say and what to do to make someone feel comforted. It was his gift. She wasn’t anyone special. And yet…

Sitting with him now, holding his hand, she very much felt as if she might be.

“Have you tried writing in your journal?” he asked.

“I have.” She’d made a concerted effort. It had been awkward at first, scratching away with her quill pen, uncertain of where to begin. But over the past two days, her random jottings had transformed into a record of her private thoughts and feelings. Of the petty frustrations she sometimes felt with her family, and the secret misgivings she had in relation to her upcoming marriage.

It seemed a betrayal to record such unhappy reflections when she knew very well she had nothing to complain about. So much so, that she’d taken to hiding her journal beneath her mattress right alongside her copy of the Provincial Medical and Surgical Gazette.

“Has it helped at all?

“A little,” she said. “I wish I could say it’s cured me, but I don’t think it can. And, as dear as Ernest is, I don’t believe he can either. I’m sorry, but—”

He pressed her hand. “You’ve misread my intentions. I have no expectation of curing you. I only want you to have things to better help you cope when the melancholy preys on your spirits. You’ve said you feel alone and unloved. Well…now you’ll have Ernest with you.”

“Oh, Mark…”

“It’s common sense, really. How can you feel unloved when there’s someone with you who loves you so devotedly? Or will love you, I hope. Only look at him. He’s already halfway there.”