Page 27 of Fair as a Star

Beryl set her free hand on Ernest’s narrow back. The little dog was curled up tight, practically clinging to her. No doubt he was missing Mrs. Arbuthnot. He’d need all the comfort and affection he could get in the coming days. “Very well,” Beryl said. “I’ll keep him. But I warn you, the sight of him is going to have my mother sending for her smelling salts.”

Mark had no opportunity to answer, for in that same moment, Winnifred came bounding up the lawn.

She was in her riding habit, her heavy skirts draped over one arm. Her head was bare, her fair hair half-falling from its pins. “Beryl!” she called breathlessly. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Beryl’s hand slipped free from Mark’s as she shot to her feet, still holding Ernest safe in her arms. Her gaze swept over Winnifred’s dirt-stained habit and disheveled hair. “What’s happened? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Goodness, no. I’ve only been out riding.”

“Then what—”

“It’s the post. Mama insists you come at once. An enormous box has arrived from Paris. Aunt Hortensia is certain it’s your wedding dress.”

Mark stood beside Beryl. She could sense him there, tense and quiet. Only seconds before, she’d been holding his hand, as intimately as she’d ever held Henry’s. More intimately, for Henry’s touch had never made her heart beat faster. And it had certainly never made her blush.

“Winnifred, your timing is—”

“Yes, yes, but you must make haste. Mama demands that you try the dress on directly. If it needs additional alterations, Aunt Hortensia says it will have to be sent up to London.” Winnifred caught Beryl’s arm, only belatedly registering the presence of Ernest. “Good grief. Is that Mrs. Arbuthnot’s ugly little dog?”

“He’s not ugly,” Beryl said. “And he’s my dog now.” She cast an apologetic glance at Mark as her sister pulled her away. “Forgive the interruption.”

“Not at all.” Mark smiled. “This is a special occasion, is it not? The arrival of your wedding dress. You must go, of course.”

There was a peculiar undercurrent to his words. A gossamer thread of emotion that Beryl couldn’t identify. It made his voice sound vaguely stiff, and his smile seem almost wooden. She gave him a searching look.

“You can stay if you like,” Winnifred offered magnanimously. “It’s only the groom who can’t see her in her dress before the wedding. And you’re not the groom. You’re merely his brother. There’s no bad luck associated with that, surely.”

“No, indeed. No bad luck at all.” Mark picked up his hat from the stone bench. He smoothed the nap of it with his sleeve, a strangely somber expression passing over his face. “Regrettably, I’m needed at the vicarage.” He took his leave from them then with a bow, more formal than was his habit. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

“He was in a queer mood,” Winnifred remarked as she and Beryl returned to the house. “I trust it wasn’t something I said.”

Mark dropped the stack of books he was carrying onto the lace-draped walnut console table in the vicarage’s entry hall. The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, his well-worn Bible, and an equally worn copy of Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads.

He’d been calling on parishioners all morning. Two of the most elderly residents of the village were consigned to their beds with influenza. Another was suffering with gout. And yet another, Mrs. Priddy, had recently been abandoned by her drunken lout of a husband and was sorely in need of comfort.

Mark had visited them all, taking as much time with them as they needed. Longer, perhaps, than he usually might have done. He felt no particular urgency to return to his office in the church. No desire to encounter the ladies’ committee preparing for the summer fete.

They’d been bustling about all week. It wasn’t uncommon for him to encounter them several times throughout the day.

Beryl was a member of the committee now.

He’d seen her only once since their encounter in the Grange’s rose garden two days ago. She’d been walking along the green outside his office window in the company of Mrs. Malvern, Ernest cradled under one arm. A smile had crept up on Mark as he’d looked at her. The picture she made with that wretched little dog. It had warmed his heart, even as it twisted it to the point of pain.

No. He wasn’t eager to return to the church. To see her again, however accidentally. He needed a short moment of respite.

But it wasn’t to be.

No sooner had he entered the hall than Mrs. Phillips approached, her lace-trimmed cap askew on her snow-white hair. “Mr. Rivenhall. Thank heaven you’ve returned. Sir Henry came to call. I told him you wouldn’t be back before two o’clock.”

“Oh?” Mark removed his hat and gloves. “How long ago did he leave?”

“That’s just it, sir. He hasn’t left. He’s still here. In the parlor, taking tea with Mr. Venable.”

Mark went still. Henry was here? Impossible. He never came to visit. Not if he could help it. He had too many demands on his time. A whole list of important items requiring his attention. If Mark was on the list at all, he was at the very bottom of it.

“I see.” He straightened his waistcoat. “I suppose I’d better join them.”

Mr. Venable’s warbly voice emerged from the parlor as Mark approached. “Not in my time, sir,” he was saying. “Nor in any that I can recall.”