Page 24 of Fair as a Star

She opened the book, expecting she knew not what. But it was no novel. No book of poetry. Quite the reverse. The pages were all blank. Her gaze lifted to Mark’s in question.

“It’s a journal,” he said. “A place for you to record your thoughts and feelings.”

“Like a young lady’s diary?” She flipped slowly through the empty pages.

“You don’t approve? Many ladies keep a journal, I believe. Even Her Majesty.”

“So did Winnie when she was a girl. It seemed rather silly.”

“It can be as serious or silly as you wish. The point is, it’s yours. A repository for your sadness, on those days it becomes too much to bear. You can put it there, in those pages.” He paused. “That was my idea anyway.”

Her throat constricted. She had the sudden fear that she might cry.

“If it doesn’t appeal to you,” he said, “you’re quite free to discard it.”

Her gloved fingers tightened on the journal. “Indeed, I won’t.” She lifted her gaze back to his. “Thank you, Mark. How very thoughtful you are.”

He smiled at her then. One of his warm smiles. The kind he used to give her before she left Shepton Worthy. The kind that said he was her friend. That he’d always be her friend. “Mind you,” he said, “it’s not my only idea. I’ve several others I’m working out.”

And then Beryl feared she really would cry if she didn’t take her leave.

“I shall look forward to them.” She stood. “Forgive me, I’ve taken enough of your time. The ladies are waiting for me in the church.”

He rose from his chair. “Have you volunteered for the committee?”

“I have. I find it best to keep busy.” She held her new notebook against her bosom as she retreated to the door. “Good afternoon, Mark. And thank you again.”

Mark wasn’t used to being disliked. He’d had a few minor difficulties with people over the course of his life, it was true, but as a whole, he generally got along with everyone. It was a fact which made Ernest’s animosity toward him a bit difficult to accept.

Then again, Ernest wasn’t exactly a person.

Attached to a loose rope lead, the cantankerous little dog had snarled and snapped at Mark’s trouser leg the entire walk to the Grange. Mark was certain he’d find a bruise on his ankle when he returned to the vicarage. For a dog with snaggled teeth, Ernest could deliver a surprisingly effective bite.

Mark sat down on one of the old stone benches in the Grange’s rose garden. An arbor stood over it, sagging slightly under the weight of the climbing roses that covered it. He’d told the housekeeper he’d be waiting there. With any luck, Ernest would show to better effect in the outdoors. He lay down on the grass as they waited, intermittently flashing a threatening canine glare in Mark’s direction.

“I’d be your friend if you’d let me,” Mark said to him.

Ernest responded with a muffled growl.

“Suit yourself.” Mark settled back on the bench and waited. He took comfort in the fact that, on the few occasions they’d met, Ernest had seemed to like Beryl. Granted, it had been over a year ago, but Mark had high hopes the little dog would remember her.

Beryl didn’t keep them waiting long. Not five minutes later, she came walking across the lawn, wearing a white muslin day dress with a green ribbon sash at her waist. A wide-brimmed straw hat hung in her hand.

Mark stood to greet her, his heart beating hard. It was ridiculous. He’d had an entire year to master his feelings in her absence. And he’d truly believed that he had. He and Beryl were friends. The humorous letters he’d written to her had solidified that relationship. Friends who were soon to be related by marriage.

Why then did his pulse still race whenever he saw her? Why did his heart lurch and his neck grow warm beneath his cravat?

And what about two days ago in his office at the church?

He’d come within an inch of taking her in his arms. She’d been so close—her hand flat on his chest and her skirts crushed against his legs. His breath had stopped. The world had stopped.

By some miracle, he’d had the presence of mind to ask her to move away from him. To recall himself to his sense of duty. But it had been a very near thing. He wondered if she realized just how near.

He thought not.

Beryl had never seemed to realize anything about his feelings for her at all. He fell too easily into the role of friend. Of village curate, there to advise and comfort. It would never occur to her to look at him in that way. The way she looked at Henry.

But no.