Page 20 of Fair as a Star

“It has no discernable cause.”

“And therefore, no treatment?”

Black flashed him an interested look. “Are we discussing someone in particular?”

Mark didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to divulge Beryl’s secrets, not to the village doctor or anyone.

“Well, in general terms then…” Black squinted into the distance. “I’d say that, though there’s no cure for that kind of melancholy, one can certainly learn to manage it.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Physical occupation. Add to that, plenty of sunshine, good food, and a good night’s sleep. The latter can be aided with hydrate of chloral, but other than that, I’m reluctant to prescribe medications.”

“Physical occupation,” Mark repeated. Beryl had been engaged in such for as long as he’d known her. If she wasn’t paying calls on the sick and needy—reading to them, tidying their cottages, and doing their shopping—she was volunteering for various ladies’ committees. She’d never been idle. Only restless, she’d said. Restless and, apparently, plagued by melancholy.

Mark had never noticed. He’d only seen what he wanted to see. Her goodness. Her willingness to be of service. She’d never shown him what lurked beneath. And he’d never troubled himself to look very hard.

He felt a keen sense of having let her down.

“Keeping oneself busy, in other words,” Black went on. “I’ve found it’s often easier for male patients than for females. Ladies are sedentary creatures by nature.” He looked down the lane, his attention caught by two riders approaching. His lips compressed. “Most ladies, that is.”

Mark followed his gaze. It was Winnifred Burnham. Garbed in a dark blue habit, she was riding sidesaddle on an enormous dapple-gray stallion. A harried groom rode a full length behind her. Mark recognized the fellow from the stables at Rivenhall Park.

He frowned. It had been his understanding that, when riding Henry’s stallion, Winnifred kept to the grounds of the Park. When had she begun venturing farther?

She slowed as she approached. The gilt buttons that ornamented her form-fitting bodice flashed in the sun. “Mr. Rivenhall. Dr. Black.”

“Miss Winnifred,” Mark said. “Good day to you.”

Though Winnifred inclined her head in acknowledgment, she was looking at Black, not Mark. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you have something you wish to say to me, sir?”

Black returned her gaze. He seemed to be standing a little taller. “Such as?”

“Another piece of well-meant advice? Another censure?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you.” Winnifred glared at him a moment longer and then trotted on. “Good day, gentlemen.”

When she’d passed, Black’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Infernal female,” he muttered. “All I ever said to her was that she’d best be careful cantering down the road on that beast, lest she hurt herself—or someone else. You’d think I’d insulted the girl.”

“To Miss Winnifred that would be an insult. She’s the most accomplished horsewoman in Shepton Worthy.”

“She’s a pain in my backside is what she is. But I’ll say no more on the subject, seeing as how you’re on the verge of being connected with the family. Once Sir Henry marries Miss Burnham—” Black looked at Mark. “I say, she’s not very like her sister, is she?”

“You haven’t met her yet?”

Black shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“No,” Mark said. “Miss Burnham is nothing like her sister. She’s…”

She was different.

Not only quieter and more thoughtful, she was—at least to Mark’s mind—the more beautiful of the Burnham sisters. Where Winnifred’s blondness was delicate and pale as silver, Beryl’s was as golden as summer sunlight. It warmed him just to think of her.

The way her dark, winged brows arched over her blue-green eyes. The way her left cheek dimpled when her mouth curved in a genuine smile.

How long had it been since he’d seen that dimple?