Page 49 of Fair as a Star

“Foolish, headstrong girl.” Mrs. Sheldrake turned on her heel, her body stiff with matronly indignation. “I wash my hands of the matter.”

Mrs. Burnham made a soft sound of irritation. “And now you’ve upset your aunt.” She strode off after Mrs. Sheldrake, untying her apron as she went.

Mark was left with Beryl and Winnifred.

“I asked her for the money to buy him,” Winnifred confessed.

“Aunt Hortensia?” Beryl’s brows lifted. “When?”

“Yesterday. Not long after you returned from Rivenhall Park. It seemed the wisest thing to do.”

“Oh, Winnie…”

“I don’t think it so very out of order to ask if Aunt Hortensia would buy him for me.” Winnifred paused. “For us, I mean. His upkeep would be no more than for the field horses.”

Mark didn’t know about that. Riding horses were notoriously expensive.

“What did she say?” Beryl asked.

“She flat out refused. Indeed, she acted as though I was out of my wits for even thinking she had such a sum to spare. And why shouldn’t I have thought so? She took you to Paris for an entire year!”

“That was different,” Beryl said.

“Yes,” Winnifred shot back. “It was more expensive than a horse would be.”

“An expense that was Aunt Hortensia’s own idea, and marriage the ultimate goal of it. Can’t you see, my dear? To her it was a practical matter, not an indulgence. She looked on our stay in Paris—all the things she bought for me—as something of an investment.”

Mark regarded Beryl with a pensive frown. The way she spoke of her impending marriage to Henry. As if she not only understood that it was a purely practical matter, void of all emotion, but that she accepted it as such. As if she didn’t need more. Deserve more.

It troubled him greatly.

“Why did you never say anything?” she’d asked him.

He wondered if it would have made a difference. If knowing how much he loved her would have prompted her to refuse Henry’s offer of marriage. To disappoint her family’s expectations—to forego wealth and security—and all for what? To be the wife of a humble curate? A man of little wealth and no property.

It was the very reason he’d never said anything. He’d been waiting. Hoping that one day—some day—when he was in a position to ask her, she’d still be there, free to accept him.

But that day had never come.

And now, it never would.

“I’m not free,” she’d said.

As if he hadn’t known that from the moment she’d accepted Henry’s proposal. He’d understood then that a part of her was lost to him forever. He still loved her. He couldn’t imagine a day when he wouldn’t, not even after they were separated by her marriage and his removal to some distant parish.

The kind of love he felt for Beryl Burnham didn’t flicker out merely because they didn’t see each other. A year apart hadn’t managed to extinguish it. He suspected that nothing ever would.

“I wish Aunt Hortensia would make an investment in my happiness,” Winnifred said. “Not in my future marriage, but in me. In something I love.”

“How much is my brother asking for him?” Mark inquired.

“Five hundred pounds,” Winnifred said.

“Five hundred pounds?” Beryl sucked in a breath. “Surely that’s just a number he made up to discourage your interest?”

Winnifred shook her head. “I asked the groom at the Park. Apparently the price is on account of Vesper’s bloodlines. As if I cared one jot for who his parents were. But some man will care. Some rich wastrel who’ll buy Vesper at the sales in London and run him straight into the ground.”

Beryl set Ernest down again. The little dog promptly trotted off to lift his leg on some gardening equipment. “He must know by now that you’ve taken him.”