Page 43 of Fair as a Star

The details were distinctly her.

A patchwork quilt lay folded at the end of her bed, a colorful ceramic pitcher sat upon the washstand, and a needlepoint pillow was propped in the chair. Delicate crystal bottles and a set of silver-plated hairbrushes graced the surface of her dressing table, and in front of the fireplace stood an artfully painted screen adorned with images of wildflowers.

Her whitework embroidery must be here, as well. He sensed it, somewhere beneath the surface, ornamenting the edge of a linen bedsheet or the hem of a petticoat folded within the wardrobe. Those tiny embroidered damselflies and butterflies. Her secret self, hidden from view.

The whole of the room was alluringly feminine, bright with sunlight and whispering with the faint fragrance of elderflower. And there, curled in the cushioned window seat, a cashmere shawl half draped around her shoulders, was Beryl herself.

Garbed in a plain white muslin day dress, her golden hair caught up in a haphazard knot at her nape, she looked more beautiful than on any other occasion Mark had beheld her.

Beautiful, and exceedingly vulnerable.

There were blue marks under her eyes, and an expression on her face that was both anxious and weary.

He went to her with concern, vaguely conscious of Mrs. Burnham closing the door behind him. She never hesitated to leave the two of them alone. As a curate, he wasn’t seen as being a threat to Beryl’s reputation.

The irony of that fact didn’t escape him.

“May I?” He motioned to the place beside her.

“If you wish.”

As he sat down, Ernest stood from Beryl’s lap and gave a half-hearted bark. She soothed him with a pet before gently depositing him onto the floor.

Mark smiled. “I’m pleased to see you haven’t been entirely alone.”

She twined her drooping shawl more firmly about her arms. “Being alone isn’t always so bad. Sometimes I prefer it.”

“Would you rather I’d not come?”

“No. I’m glad to see you.”

One wouldn’t know it by her demeanor. There was a weight of sadness in her gaze. A dull, lost look. As if the whole of her world had turned inward.

He tried again. “Your mother said you went to the Park after church on Sunday.”

She gazed out the window. The Grange’s rosebushes were in full bloom below, bloodred roses vying for attention with those of white, yellow, and the palest porcelain pink.

He wondered if she even saw them. She seemed very far away. “Did you speak with Henry?”

“Yes.”

“And did you…” He hesitated, a creeping warmth rising under his cravat. “Did you tell him that I kissed you?”

At last she looked at him. Her blue-green eyes were startlingly direct. “Is that what you think happened?”

“I don’t know what to think. I only know that you were upset when we parted. That you feared you’d damaged your relationship with Henry. You were quite distraught at the possibility.”

“I never was.”

“You were,” he assured her. “I distinctly recall it. You said that you’d ruined everything.”

Understanding registered in Beryl’s face. “I wasn’t talking about Henry. I was talking about us.”

Us.

A simple word, but in that instant, it was as powerful as a magical incantation. It changed the chemistry of the moment. Altering the very rhythm of Mark’s pulse and breath.

He felt something fracture inside of him. Long-held beliefs about who was first and best in her heart. He’d misinterpreted things. Got them all backward. It wasn’t Henry she feared losing. It was him. The realization struck his composure a devastating blow.