Page 47 of Fair as a Star

“It’s ludicrous.”

“That’s what I said. But Henry—” She broke off as realization sank in. “How is it that you know so much about cures and treatments?” Her gaze turned accusing. “You didn’t discuss my condition with Dr. Black?”

“I did,” he admitted. “But only in the abstract.”

She drew back. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing about you.” Mark stepped forward, closing the lost distance between them. His broad shoulder came to rest against the window frame. “I promise. We spoke in general terms.”

“And he says there’s nothing that can be done?” She’d known that already. Known it and accepted it. The fact nevertheless caused a dull pain in her heart.

“He recommends the very things you’ve already done by instinct. Healthy occupation. Sunlight and fresh air. Activities to take you out of yourself.”

“And when the melancholy strikes in spite of all that? Because it will. There’s no way to keep it entirely at bay.”

Mark came closer, bunching the skirts of her day dress with his legs. “I have my own opinions on the subject.”

Her pulse jumped. She feared his censure more than anyone’s. “You think I should behave differently?”

“What I think—what I sincerely believe—is that you need to surround yourself with people who love and support you unconditionally. Who’ll show compassion during your dark moments, not criticize and shame you for something over which you have no control.”

She doubted such people existed. Not everyone in her life was as harsh on the subject as Henry, but even Mama had plainly been pushed to her limits by Beryl’s low spirits. If her mother couldn’t show unconditional support during such times, how could Beryl expect such love and understanding from a man?

A small needful part of her wanted to ask Mark how he would have behaved in Henry’s place. If he would have exhibited such patience and understanding.

But she already knew the answer.

That day by the riverbank, Mark had shown her just how compassionate he could be. He’d sat with her and listened to her. Had read to her, and rubbed her back so very gently.

“I want you to leave this burden with me for a day or two,” he’d said.

She’d thought him altogether wrongheaded. And then…

And then, he’d given her a journal. He’d given her Ernest.

“How can you feel unloved,” he’d asked, “when there’s someone with you who loves you so devotedly?”

Ernest was presently curled up on the carpet, occasionally opening one eye to assure himself of her safety.

And Mark was here.

He’d come to her, despite the discomfort he must feel after their kiss. He’d come to make sure she was all right, bringing no judgments or burden of guilt. Expecting nothing in return.

Her heartbeat accelerated, swift as a hummingbird’s. “May I ask you something?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

“Sunday, outside the church…you said what happened between us didn’t mean anything.” Her face burned with a blush that was almost painful. “Was that true?”

He looked steadily back at her. A taut silence stretched between them. “No. It wasn’t,” he said at last. “Quite the reverse.”

She could think of nothing else to say. Could only look at him, wondering how in the world she’d ever been so blind.

“It’s not ideal, I know,” he said. “This love I have for you. Have always had.” He gave a rueful grimace. “When you left for Paris, I prayed that God would take it from me. That I could be rid of it once and for all.”

Love, he’d said. Not affection or admiration. Not merely friendship.

Love.