Page 41 of Fair as a Star

“The man should be ostracized from polite society,” Black said. “Though I don’t suppose he will be. Not here. People like Mrs. Priddy are next door to invisible in this godforsaken village.”

“Shepton Worthy isn’t unique in that regard.”

“No. It’s worse.” Black heaved a weary sigh. “I sometimes wonder if I wouldn’t do better somewhere else. A village less committed to outward appearances.”

Mark gave a short laugh. There was nothing of humor in it. “If you find such a place, do let me know.”

“You’re not considering moving to another parish?”

“I might be.”

Black shot him a sharp glance. “By choice?”

“Not mine.”

“Your brother’s?”

Mark hesitated. It went against the grain to discuss his relationship with Henry, especially as it related to Beryl. But Simon Black had become a friend. There was no use dissembling. “He’s indicated that, when Venable retires, he may grant the living to someone else.”

Black was quiet for a long moment. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”

“Perhaps,” Mark said. That didn’t prevent him from feeling hollow inside at the prospect. As if all the happiness and optimism had been drained from his life.

“As a point of interest, my father has the living available on his estate. He mentioned it in his last letter. I daresay he’s still holding out hope that, one day, I might give up medicine and return to the church.” Black went silent again before offering, “I can put in a word, if you like.”

“Dorset, isn’t it?” If Mark remembered, the Earl of Harbury’s estate was located somewhere near Wimborne. “That’s not too far from here.”

“Far enough,” Black said. “It may be just the thing for you.”

Mark bent his head. He couldn’t imagine a life without the hope of seeing Beryl each day. Without the joy of making her smile. A growing sadness welled within him. “Very well,” he replied. “If you would make inquiries, I’d be obliged to you.”

He walked with Black up the lane and onto the main street. Black’s surgery was situated on the corner, a wooden shingle over the door proclaiming his name and profession. There Mark took his leave. He was needed back at the church. The ladies’ committee was finishing preparations for the fete and he’d promised Mrs. Malvern he would assist with setting up some of the stalls on the green.

It would mean seeing Beryl again.

Mark both longed for and dreaded the moment.

He hadn’t crossed paths with her since their ill-fated encounter outside the church. That hadn’t stopped him from replaying their kiss over and over in his mind. From meditating on the softness of her lips and the feeling of her body pressed so intimately to his.

Such memories were bittersweet. They warred with less pleasant recollections. The way she’d looked when she’d broken away from him—shocked, stricken. The way her voice had trembled.

“I’ve ruined everything,” she’d said.

Mark hated to think of it. Doing so only caused him to feel hurt and embarrassment, and a sense of loss so keen he could focus on nothing else.

Back at the vicarage, he looked in on a sleeping Mr. Venable before walking down to the village green. The ladies were already gathered there, along with several of the village men they’d pressed into service.

“What do you think, Mr. Rivenhall?” Mrs. Malvern asked. She was wearing a paint-stained apron over her fashionable day dress. “Not too shabby for a half day’s work, if I do say so myself.”

Wooden stalls were arrayed over the green. Those that were finished had received a coat of white paint. Others were still under construction. Men shouted back and forth to each other as they sawed and hammered.

“You’ve made great progress,” Mark said.

“Owing to our brawny volunteers. We mean to thank them by feeding them. Mrs. Doolittle and Mrs. White should be back any moment with hampers of sandwiches and lemonade. No doubt the men would prefer cold beer, but you know how some of our ladies feel about strong drink.”

Mark’s gaze drifted over the green. “Is Miss Burnham not here?”

“Indeed not. I believe she’s unwell. Her mother sent a note round to that effect this morning. Such a pity, too, for Miss Burnham was going to bring her wedding dress to the Emporium this afternoon. My husband is anxious to examine the design.” Mrs. Malvern looked up at him. “You don’t think it’s anything serious?”