Page 42 of Fair as a Star

What Mark thought was that he was an unpardonable idiot.

He’d been too caught up in worrying over his own hurt feelings—his own injured pride—to consider what that kiss must have meant to Beryl. She was bound to view it in the most negative terms. To be feeling even more at sea. As if she’d done something unforgivable.

Had he been thinking clearly, he’d have mustered the nerve to call on her the very same day. Instead, he’d left her alone, to languish in guilt and self-recrimination.

It wouldn’t do.

He looked back toward the road, wishing that he’d had the forethought to have brought the gig. It was over a mile’s walk to the Grange.

“Mr. Rivenhall?” Mrs. Malvern asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Quite.” He forced a smile, certain it must look more like a grimace. “Forgive me. There’s a matter I must attend to. If you’ll excuse me?”

“By all means. We have volunteers enough for today.”

Mark departed the green without looking back. He’d walked to the Grange countless times over the years, but never before with such haste. Arriving at the door, he was greeted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Witherspoon, who showed him into the drawing room.

He was too anxious to sit down. He paced from the marble fireplace to the velvet-draped windows and back again, his hands clasped at his back.

When at last the drawing room door opened, he came to an abrupt halt, his pulse quickening with expectation. But it wasn’t Beryl who entered. It was her mother.

An expression of relief came over Mrs. Burnham’s face at the sight of him. “Mr. Rivenhall. I was just deliberating on whether or not to summon you. Imagine my surprise when Mrs. Witherspoon informed me that you were already here.”

Mark stepped forward. “You were going to send for me? Why?”

“It was either you or Dr. Black. My daughter’s been quite unwell, you see.” Mrs. Burnham took a seat, motioning for him to do the same. “I’ve been at sixes and sevens all morning.”

He sat down across from her on the very edge of a petit-point armchair. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I must ask… Is Miss Burnham’s illness of a similar nature to that which plagued her last year?”

“Mr. Venable spoke to you? Good heavens. Beryl feared he might. Oh, but I did assure her—”

“It wasn’t Venable. It was Miss Burnham herself. If she’s unwell, I should dearly like to see her. It’s why I’ve come. Unless, of course, it’s a medical matter, in which case—”

“I don’t know that it is a medical matter,” Mrs. Burnham said. “It’s precisely why I’ve been fretting so, trying to decide whether to summon a clergyman or a physician.”

“Has Miss Burnham asked for a doctor?”

“No indeed. She never would. And I don’t expect she’d thank me for summoning one. She had a rather difficult experience with Mr. Cooper.” Mrs. Burnham’s brow puckered. “I’d thought she was doing better. She’s been so looking forward to the fete, and to her wedding to Sir Henry. Her wedding dress came last week, did she tell you? All the way from Paris. I confess, I wept when I saw her in it. How any young lady could be glum in such circumstances, I don’t know. But when she returned from the Park—”

“She visited Rivenhall Park?” Mark’s blood went cold. “When?”

“On Sunday. Not long after we came home from church. She was gone only a short while. When she returned, she had a few words with Winnifred and then retired to her room. She’s been quiet and withdrawn ever since. And it’s worsening by the day. Last night, I couldn’t even persuade her to join us for dinner.” Mrs. Burnham gave him a bleak look. “I ask you, sir, what has my daughter to be unhappy about? She has everything a young lady could want, and is poised to have even more.”

Mark could barely bring himself to answer. His chest was tight with anxiety. “I don’t believe her unhappiness has anything to do with that.”

“No. No, I don’t suppose it does.” Mrs. Burnham stared at the fireplace, briefly losing herself in thought.

“May I see her?” Mark asked.

“Yes, I think you’d better.” She rose from her seat. “A clergyman might succeed where a mother has failed.”

He accompanied her upstairs, following her to a wood-paneled door at the end of a dimly lit hallway. Motioning for him to wait, she rapped once before slipping inside. A long minute passed before she emerged.

“You may go in,” she said, holding the door wide.

Mark had never been inside Beryl’s bedroom before. A four-poster bed stood at its center, green velvet hangings tied back to reveal a neatly folded coverlet and bolster. There was a dressing table, wardrobe, and washstand. A comfortable chair poised by the fireplace.

It wasn’t so very different from other ladies’ bedrooms he’d visited in the course of his parish duties. And yet…