Page 28 of Fair as a Star

“Times do change,” Henry replied. “But I agree. I like straying from the traditions no more than you do.” He looked up as Mark entered the room. “At last. My brother has returned.”

“Henry.” Mark inclined his head. “Venable. Glad to see you’re feeling a bit better.”

There was a fire in the hearth, blazing at full force. Mr. Venable’s velvet wingback chair was arranged close to it. He had a woolen blanket draped across his lap and another drawn around his shoulders. “Always pleased to welcome a distinguished guest.”

Henry returned his teacup to the tea tray, rising from his seat on the sofa before Mark could take a seat himself. “I’m afraid I’ve overtaxed you.”

“Not at all, sir. Not at all.” Mr. Venable fell into a bout of coughing. He pressed his handkerchief to his mouth until it passed.

Mark watched him carefully. He was suffering badly from consumption. His skin was waxen, his features drawn with pain and fatigue. “Shall I fetch Mrs. Phillips?”

“Unnecessary,” Mr. Venable wheezed. “I’m perfectly well, as you see.”

“I will bid you good day, then,” Henry said, bowing. “Mark? If I can trouble you to walk me out?”

Mark reluctantly obliged him. As they crossed through the hall, he exchanged a weighted glance with Mrs. Phillips. She gave him a nod of understanding before hurrying into the parlor. Mr. Venable might not be willing to admit he needed help—not in front of a man like Henry—but Mark recognized when the old vicar was struggling.

“Will you take a turn about the grounds with me?” Henry asked.

“If you like.” Mark followed his brother out, shutting the front door of the vicarage behind them. “Any particular reason?”

“I came here to speak with you, not to have a tea party with an invalid. Another quarter of an hour and I’d have gone.”

“I didn’t see your carriage.”

“I walked from the Park.”

Mark’s mouth hitched in a humorless smile. “A rarity.”

“It’s a pleasant enough day for it. Not that you’d know it from the inferno in your parlor.” Henry gave him a dry look. “Does Venable always keep the vicarage at such a temperature?”

“He’s dying.”

“So I gather.” A long pause. “He mentioned retirement.”

Mark walked alongside Henry into the small wilderness garden that lay adjacent to the vicarage. Shade trees grew there at odd angles, and colorful weeds sprouted as readily as the wildflowers that blanketed the ground. It was a secluded enough spot, filtered by light and shadow. Mark often strolled there in the early hours of the morning, or after dinner, as dusk was falling, when he needed to think, or to pray.

It was strange to be walking here with his brother of all people. Henry had never been a man prone to reflection.

“I believe he’s beginning to take the prospect seriously,” Mark said. “But he’s still resistant to the idea. He doesn’t wish to give up his church. Which is understandable, given the length of his tenure.”

“It’s my church,” Henry said. “And you’re already vicar here in all but name.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk with me about? You’ve made some sort of decision about my future?” Again. Mark didn’t say the word aloud, but he may as well have done. It hung there in the air between them.

“You take pleasure in painting me as a villain,” Henry said. “Someone had to take things in hand after our father died.”

Their father, the late Sir Richard Rivenhall, had been a profligate. He’d drunk and gambled the family fortune away, leaving the estate on the brink of ruin. If not for Henry’s tenacity—his single-minded stubbornness and determination—Rivenhall Park would have been sold years ago. Instead, Henry had resurrected it by sheer force of will. It was now once again the jewel of Shepton Worthy. And Henry himself, the matrimonial prize of Somerset.

At least, he had been up until the day his betrothal was announced.

Mark’s expression hardened to recall it. “It has nothing to do with our father—”

“And you haven’t done too badly in the bargain,” Henry went on, talking straight over him. “Unless, of course, you’re still nurturing some longing to be a soldier?”

Mark thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. No. He had no desire to be a soldier. Such dreams had been the stuff of his youth. Even then, they’d been little more than rebellion against the iron will of his older brother.

From birth, Mark had been destined for the church, just as Jack had been destined for the army. It had always been thus with the second and third sons in their family for too many generations to count. Mark had understood that. In time, he’d come to accept it.