Page 50 of Fair as a Star

“Probably.” Winnifred pressed her cheek to Vesper’s nose. “No doubt he’s in a towering fury.” A frown worked its way between her brows. “Do you think he’ll come after me?”

“I’ll speak with him,” Mark said. He needed to see Henry anyway to discuss Bert Priddy. He might as well kill two unpleasant birds with one stone.

“No.” Beryl placed a staying hand on his arm. “I’ll go.”

He looked at her. “You needn’t—”

“I must.” An expression of single-minded intention came over her face. “And I must do it alone.”

Aunt Hortensia permitted Beryl to use the carriage for her visit. It was quicker than walking. More convenient, too, as it allowed her to make a brief stop in the village first. “Malvern’s Emporium,” she told the coachman.

“Right-o, miss.”

She sank back in her seat. Her palms were damp, and her stomach quavering. She wondered if she’d quite lost her mind.

But no.

Her nerves notwithstanding, she felt more determined than she had in ages.

And it was all entirely her own idea. No one else knew a thing. Indeed, no one at the Grange had even seen her off. Mama had been too busy tending to Aunt Hortensia, and Winnifred had been occupied looking after Ernest and Vesper. As for Mark, he’d reluctantly taken his leave long before Beryl departed. She’d assured him that his parish duties were more important than a minor domestic quibble.

But it was more than that to her. More than a disagreement about a horse.

A trembling courage built within her. It wasn’t a blind courage. She knew very well what the consequences would be. Mama and Aunt Hortensia would be disappointed in her. And there would be gossip—worse than Beryl had endured thus far.

But gossip was a temporary thing. A marriage was forever. The rest of her life, until death would she part. Was it worth avoiding the one by being sentenced to the other?

She didn’t think so.

By the time the carriage stopped in front of Malvern’s Emporium, her courageous impulse had hardened to a firm resolve. She entered the shop, with its elegant window display of sprigged muslin summer frocks and pastel silk parasols. The bell over the polished wood door tinkled to announce her arrival.

Mr. Malvern looked up from behind the cutting counter. “Miss Burnham! I was hoping you might stop in today.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” she said. “Is this a convenient time?”

“It is at that.” He cleared a space on the counter. “You can bring it straight here.”

Less than an hour later, Beryl was back inside the carriage and on her way to Rivenhall Park.

She tightened the drawstring opening of her overstuffed reticule as the carriage rattled to a halt in front of the main residence. She disembarked without assistance, and straightening her skirts, climbed the wide front steps.

A liveried footman greeted her at the door. “Miss Burnham. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon. Is Sir Henry in?”

“He’s in his library, ma’am.”

Relief pulsed through her. She’d feared she’d tarried too long in the village, and that Henry might have already set off in pursuit of his horse. Thank goodness he was still at home.

“Will you tell him I’m here?” She stepped inside the marble-tiled hall. It was clean and cool, smelling of beeswax and lemon polish.

“Yes, ma’am.” The footman waited while she divested herself of her straw bonnet and gloves. “Would you care to wait in the drawing room?”

“I’d prefer the small parlor,” Beryl said.

One of the Park’s rarely used reception rooms, the parlor was less Henry’s domain than the drawing room or the library. She hoped that meeting him there would help to put the two of them on an equal footing.

“This way, if you please.” The footman escorted her to the small silk-papered room before trotting off to fetch Henry.