Page 7 of Fair as a Star

“I relayed entertaining anecdotes about the village. About my parishioners and their children.” Mark stood. He was in no mood to argue with his brother. “Speaking of which, I’d best get back to them.”

Henry sloshed his brandy in his glass. “You may well be invited to dinner this evening, too.”

“You can rest easy. I’m not likely to accept.” Mark walked to the door. As he reached to open it, a haphazard flower arrangement on a low table caught his eye. It was wildflowers—an entire porcelain vase spilling over with them. He wondered that he hadn’t noticed it before. “Mrs. Guthrie’s tastes have changed since last I visited.”

Rivenhall Park’s rather despotic housekeeper wasn’t known for frivolity. A dignified arrangement of roses was her preferred decoration, and that in the drawing or dining room—never in the library.

Henry cast a brief look at the wildflowers. His mouth twisted into a dry smile. “That’s not Mrs. Guthrie’s doing. Those came from Miss Winnifred. She brought them this morning when she came to go riding.”

Winnifred Burnham was Beryl’s younger sister. She had the dubious distinction of being the village’s most eligible young lady. She was also unrepentantly horse mad. As a girl, she’d been a regular fixture at the Rivenhall Park stables.

“Is she here often?”

“More than usual of late,” Henry said. “I’ve given her leave to exercise that stallion I bought at the sales. She has a way with the brute.”

Mark frowned. Winnifred was a capable enough horsewoman when mounted on a sensible mare or a gelding, but stallions were something else altogether. They could be dangerously unpredictable. “Her mother approves?”

“I don’t believe she knows of it. Thus far, Miss Winnifred has restricted her riding to the Park.”

Mark’s frown deepened. It wasn’t like Henry to be so careless. “You’d better pray no harm comes to the girl.”

“Is that a warning, little brother?” Something dark flickered at the back of Henry’s gaze. “Shall I give you one in return? Or is that particular warning, perhaps, better left unsaid?”

Mark’s expression hardened. He didn’t dignify his brother’s word with a reply. Settling his hat back on his head, he exited the library, shutting the door behind him.

“Oh, my heavens!” Winnifred lifted an elegant Worth and Bobergh evening gown of pale blue silk taffeta from its tissue-paper wrappings. “The fabric feels divine. And is that an interchangeable bodice? Great goodness. It has mother-of-pearl buttons. Yes, I do believe this is my favorite of all your new dresses.”

Beryl glanced up from her embroidery. She was seated in the window embrasure, one of her new white cotton petticoats draped across her lap. A honeybee was slowly taking shape at the hem, stitched in white floss. “That’s what you said about the last one.”

Her sister shot her an impatient look. “Well, how was I to know you’d have an actual Worth evening gown packed in your trunk? You never said so in your letters.”

“I believe I did.”

“You only mentioned Mr. Worth designing your wedding dress. You said nothing about Aunt Hortensia having purchased an evening gown for you. And you certainly didn’t mention that you’d be bringing it home with you in your trunk.”

“It must have slipped my mind.” Unlike Beryl’s wedding dress, which was to be shipped separately from Paris, the evening gown had been ready at the time she and Aunt Hortensia had departed.

“Really, Beryl. If I had an evening gown designed by Empress Eugénie’s own dressmaker, you can be sure everyone would know it.”

Winnifred moved to the gilt-framed pier glass that stood opposite Beryl’s carved four-poster bed. Holding the evening gown up over her rumpled riding habit, she posed this way and that, admiring her reflection. “Aunt Hortensia should have taken me to Paris, not you.”

“Yes, she should have,” Beryl agreed.

Winnifred was unmollified. “I knew you wouldn’t enjoy it. And if you were going to be miserable regardless, I don’t see why you couldn’t have been miserable in Shepton Worthy. I’d have been happy in Paris. I’d have taken full advantage of Aunt’s generosity. Only think of the riding costumes I might have had made there.”

Beryl didn’t imagine that her sister expected a reply. She turned her attention back to her whitework. No sooner had she done so than the door to her bedroom opened again.

“There you are,” Mama said, frowning at Winnifred. “Haven’t you heard me calling for you?”

“Look, Mama.” Winnifred turned to face her mother, still holding up the gown. “It’s a genuine Worth. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“Stop wrinkling the fabric, my dear. Give it to Mary so she can press it for this evening.” Mama entered the room, a folded piece of notepaper in her hand. She was wearing an apron over her dress. She often did when working in her garden. “I’ve just heard from Sir Henry. He’ll be dining with us tonight.” She urged Winnifred to the door. “Go and choose a dress to wear from your wardrobe. Mary must have ample time to sponge and press it. I’ll have no last-minute scrambling to remove old stains from the stables.”

“Must you always bring that up? It only happened once.”

“Once was more than sufficient,” Mama said. “Off with you!”

With a sigh, and a muttered “yes, Mama,” Winnifred exited Beryl’s room.