Page 30 of Fair as a Star

“She’ll get over it.” Henry resumed walking. “Her mother and sister will thank me in the end.”

Mark sighed. He caught up with his brother in two strides. “Does it never occur to you that sometimes you don’t know best? That on occasion, all you’re doing is running over people and giving them a dislike of you?”

Henry shot him a dangerous glance. “Are you speaking of someone in particular?”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m only remarking that, sometimes, it might benefit you to listen to people, and to try to understand. Especially where ladies are concerned.”

“I more than comprehend you.”

“I’m quite sure that you don’t.” Mark looked straight ahead as they walked. “I’m not talking about her.”

Henry was quiet for a tension-filled moment. “You’ve been seeing a lot of her.”

“Naturally. She’s on the ladies’ committee for the summer fete.” And she’s my friend.

But Mark didn’t say that. He didn’t have to. They both knew what Beryl was to him. It was the very cause of the rift between them.

Though Mark couldn’t blame it all on his unrequited feelings.

He and Henry had never been particularly close. They were too different, each the polar opposite of the other. They might have gone on that way forever, calling an uneasy truce as many brothers do. But Henry had insisted on asserting himself. On courting her. Proposing to her.

Mark’s own feelings for Beryl had been dismissed as easily as Henry dismissed any other obstacle in his path.

“Why did you come here today?” Mark asked. “You must have had some reason.”

“To talk with you about your future. As I said, you’re already vicar here in all but name.” Henry clasped his hands at his back. His face was hard. Unreadable. “When Venable retires, I suppose you’ll be expecting me to formally grant you the living.”

A frisson of foreboding jolted Mark’s gaze to his brother’s. Their eyes locked. “That’s always been the plan, hasn’t it? It’s the reason I’ve stayed on so long as curate.”

“Plans can change.”

Understanding sank in. With it came a simmering anger, the likes of which Mark had never felt toward Henry before. “You’re threatening to take the church away from me.”

“I’m not threatening anything,” Henry said calmly. “I’d merely like you to consider whether, after my marriage, you might not be happier somewhere else.”

Beryl settled back into the velvet seat cushions of Aunt Hortensia’s carriage. Ernest was curled snugly upon her lap. It had been only a few days since Mark had brought him to the Grange. During that time, the little dog had attached himself to Beryl with a desperate canine determination. He’d taken to following her wherever she went, and if prohibited from accompanying her, would cry most piteously.

“You shouldn’t indulge the creature,” Aunt Hortensia said. Seated across from Beryl in the carriage, she was decked out in her Sunday best, the plumes of her bonnet nearly brushing the ceiling.

“He’s grieving the loss of his old mistress,” Beryl replied. “It would be a cruelty to leave him behind.”

“A catastrophe as well,” Mama said from her place next to Aunt Hortensia. “He’s the untidiest creature I’ve ever encountered. Did Mrs. Arbuthnot never think to teach him better manners?”

Beryl set a protective hand on Ernest’s back. “I’m sure he knows how to behave. He’s only a little unreliable at present. I expect it’s because of his change in circumstance.”

Winnifred was beside Beryl in the carriage, the silk skirts of her best Sunday dress billowing wide over a wire crinoline. “Yes, I daresay it was an excess of grief that made him soil the sofa leg last night.”

Mama looked pained. “I pray that Mrs. Witherspoon will be able to remove the stain. The drawing room carpet is in poor enough condition without—”

“Enough,” Aunt Hortensia said. “We’ll speak no more of the dog’s despicable habits.”

“Your aunt is right. It isn’t at all a suitable subject for Sunday conversation.” Mama’s gaze lit on Ernest, her face making a moue of disapproval. “You’ll leave him in the carriage, of course.”

Aunt Hortensia puffed up. “Not in my carriage, she won’t. The little beast can be tied to the churchyard fence, where he can do no harm.”

“Poor Ernest,” Winnifred said as the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the church. “Reduced to relieving himself out of doors.”

“Winnifred, really,” Mama said.