Page 18 of Fair as a Star

It was a foolish notion. There was no need to be kept safe. She wasn’t in any danger. The only peril she faced was from herself—from her own unruly emotions. What could Mark do about those? Nothing at all. She knew that. And yet…

Some of the tension eased from her limbs. She draped one arm across her midsection, letting her eyes drift shut as she listened to him.

A long while passed before Mark stopped reading.

“Have I bored you to sleep?” he asked.

She opened her eyes to find him leaning over her, blocking the sunlight from her face. She smiled. “Indeed not. I was only thinking.”

“About what?”

“That it’s been ages since I’ve heard you read anything but a sermon.”

“Is that all.” He drew back as she sat up and dusted the grass from her gown. “If you’d like me to read to you again, you need only say so. I hope you know that I’m yours to command.”

Her pulse gave an odd flutter. “As if I would presume to command you.”

“You know what I mean. If it would lift your spirits—”

“Being with you always lifts my spirits. But it’s rather more complicated than that.” She smoothed her skirts over her updrawn knees. “You mustn’t feel obliged to try to cheer me just because I’ve confided in you.”

“It’s not obligation. It’s—” He stopped. “What I mean to say is…” He fell quiet a moment. “This burden of yours—this sadness—I want you to leave it with me for a day or two.”

Her chest constricted. She was grateful for his kindness. It was well meant, however wrong-headed. “It’s not something I can hand off at will. And even if I could…” Her eyes met his. “You can’t fix this, Mark. You can’t fix me.”

He gave her a brief, lopsided smile. “Of course not,” he said. “You’re not broken.”

Closing his well-worn copy of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, Mark rose from the shabby chintz armchair angled beside Mrs. Arbuthnot’s sickbed. The movement triggered another storm of barking from the little black dog curled at her feet. He was a dubious-looking canine of no particular pedigree—though his bulging eyes, wiry hair, and plumed tail identified him as some unholy mixture of pug, terrier, and spaniel.

“Don’t mind him, Mr. Rivenhall.” Mrs. Arbuthnot’s speech was slightly slurred. “He fancies he’s protecting me.”

Mark smiled. “I don’t mind. Ernest and I are old friends.”

Ernest responded to that statement by curling his lip to bare his snaggled teeth.

Mrs. Arbuthnot summoned the little dog to her with an age-spotted hand. “I would that you were. My daughter’s husband won’t tolerate dogs in the house. If I can’t find a place for Ernest before she comes to fetch me, he’ll have to be destroyed. Mrs. Doolittle’s offered to do the job with chloroform.”

Mark’s smile evaporated. Ernest was no prize, but he was a young dog yet, and a loyal one. He deserved better. “Is there no one who can take him for you?”

“No, sir. Mrs. White down the lane was considering it, but she’s a fastidious sort, and don’t like any creatures leaving a mess.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot’s own cottage wasn’t messy any more. Most of the furnishings had been sold, and what was left of her belongings were in the process of being packed into a large trunk. A severe episode of apoplexy earlier in the year had left her paralyzed on one side. She was no longer capable of living independently.

It was Mark who had contacted her daughter and made arrangements for Mrs. Arbuthnot to go and live with her. At the time, he’d assumed Ernest would be welcome.

“She’ll be here next week,” Mrs. Arbuthnot said.

Mark took her good hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Let me see what I can do.”

A brisk knock at the door announced the arrival of Dr. Black. He came into the cottage with the ease of one who visited daily, and had no need to await an invitation to enter. “Mrs. Arbuthnot. Mr. Rivenhall.” He removed his hat. “Good morning.”

Simon Black was a tall, rangy young man, with a mop of fair hair, and side-whiskers trimmed short on either side of his narrow face. His hazel eyes were sharp, his expression as intelligent as it was compassionate. In short, he was nothing at all like Mr. Cooper, the rough surgeon who had preceded him.

Mark often encountered Dr. Black in the course of performing his parish duties. He’d come to value the man’s judgment and discretion, and to look on him as something like a friend. After exchanging greetings with him, Mark took his leave of Mrs. Arbuthnot. He lingered outside in the lane until the young doctor emerged.

Black regarded him with upraised brows.

“I hoped to have a word with you,” Mark said.