Page 3 of Fair as a Star

Warmth crept into her cheeks. “I did.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I wanted to see a friendly face before I entered the lion’s den.”

The strange look in his eyes—so guarded and wary—seemed to soften. “Shall I walk you back?”

Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. “Can you?”

“I’ll lock up the church.”

“Isn’t Mr. Venable about?” Beryl had half expected to see the antiquated vicar. He’d been a fixture at the church ever since she was a girl. A white-haired relic, even then.

“He’s confined to his bed. His health has been failing of late. I believe he’s finally beginning to seriously contemplate retirement.”

“And then you’ll be made vicar?”

“That’s the idea.” Mark’s smile dimmed. “It’s ultimately up to Henry.” He tugged at the front of his cassock. “Will you give me a moment to change?”

“Of course.” Beryl waited in the aisle, her gloved hands clasped in front of her. She didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to resume the life she’d left a year ago.

Not that Paris had been much better.

There had been more distraction there, certainly. But her secret burden had lurked in the background—through all of her visits to the fashionable shops and her meals at elegant cafés and patisseries—waiting to once again wrap itself around her heart. It wasn’t a continuous source of distress, no more than it had been in Shepton Worthy. But it was there. A dark cloud only temporarily eclipsed by the sun.

Mark appeared again in short order, wearing a white linen shirt, with dark woolen trousers and matching waistcoat. His frock coat was draped over his arm.

He wasn’t as tall as Henry, nor as brawny as Jack had been—though he still dwarfed Beryl in both height and breadth. But it wasn’t his build that made Mark attractive. It was the kindness about him. The sparkle of roguish good humor that made his blue eyes crinkle and his mouth quirk. That humor had been present in all of his letters. Had made her laugh when she felt like weeping.

“Shall we set off?” he asked.

“By all means.” She followed him out of the church, waiting on the steps as he locked the doors. “I didn’t mean to importune your time.”

“Nonsense. I’m glad for the fresh air.” He walked alongside her through the churchyard, hands thrust in his pockets. “Glad I was your first stop.”

“I thought you were put out.”

“Surprised,” he admitted. “You took me off of my guard. I hadn’t expected you to return until September.”

“Yes, well…Aunt Hortensia didn’t feel there was any point in staying away any longer. Not with the wedding approaching.”

Mark bent his head to conceal a frown. “It is looming ahead, isn’t it?”

“Less than three months away.” It was impossible not to think of it. Impossible not to contemplate the absolute inevitability of it all. Even in Paris, where she’d been meant to be resting and recovering herself, Aunt Hortensia had insisted that the bulk of their time be spent shopping for Beryl’s wedding clothes.

Less than three months.

She was beginning to feel like a prize pig being forced down an increasingly narrow chute.

“October fifteenth,” Mark said. “I have it written down in my diary.”

As did she. Written down and underlined in heavy pencil. She moistened her lips. “Is Henry much changed?”

“He’s been keeping himself busy with estate matters. But that’s no different than usual. Truth be told, I haven’t seen him very often.”

She looked at him. “Why not?”

“I’ve had too much work to do, what with Mr. Venable being ill, and the villagers needing my input on plans for the summer fete. There have been disputes between some of the ladies about how to proceed this year. Old grievances and such. I’ve been called upon to play mediator.”

“No wonder Mr. Venable has decided to take to his bed.”

“Yes, his indisposition is rather convenient. He never did like settling arguments between parishioners, not with any degree of nuance. It was all he could do to make it through the Christmas pageant this year. By the end of it, he was reduced to advising everyone to ‘cut the baby in half,’ like Solomon.”