Page 59 of Fair as a Star

“Just this morning. I saw it when I was leaving my offices, bold as you please. I expect he’s trying to capitalize on the crowds generated by the fete.”

Mark’s gaze found Beryl again. She was too far away to tell for certain, but it seemed she was in good spirits. Perhaps no one had yet had the temerity to mention it to her?

“That isn’t the only reason I was hoping we might cross paths,” Black said.

“Oh?” Mark asked, distracted. “I trust nothing is amiss with one of your patients?”

“You might say that.” Black’s countenance turned serious. “I’ve had word that Bert Priddy has been seen in the village.”

Mark gave him an alert look. “When?”

“This morning. He was spotted staggering about down by the smithy. I feared he’d gone home to cause more mischief, but when I stopped by the Priddys’ cottage, it was empty. Mrs. Priddy was either gone or—”

“Mrs. Priddy is here,” Mark said. “I saw her earlier, assisting one of the ladies at their cake stall.”

“And what about her husband? You don’t think he’d show his face at the fete?”

Mark frowned. “He may well. Old Mr. Hinchcliffe is selling his cider. It has a reputation for being stronger than advertised.” Indeed, his stall was already drawing crowds, just as it did every year. Mark cast a glance over the queue. “I don’t see him yet. I’ll keep a lookout.”

“As will I.” Black fell in at Mark’s side as he resumed walking. “Have you spoken to Sir Henry about it yet?”

Guilt pricked at Mark’s conscience. “I haven’t had the opportunity.”

He’d meant to do it on Wednesday, but Beryl had arrived at the vicarage. Had told him that she loved him. That she was in love with him. The rest of the world had faded away. Since then, he’d been wary of facing Henry. But it would have to be done, for Mrs. Priddy’s sake if not for his own—and sooner rather than later.

“I’ll call on him at the Park this evening,” Mark said. “We’ll have more privacy there.”

Black nodded. “Let me know what he says.”

“Are you staying to enjoy the fete?”

“Until I’m summoned to attend to some injury or other incurred in the course of the day.”

“In my experience,” Mark said, “the fete doesn’t produce any sick or injured until closer to sunset, and that’s usually owing to Mr. Hinchcliffe’s cider. You’re safe enough for now.”

“In that case”—Black quirked a wry smile—“I’ll make a brief foray into the tea tent.”

It billowed ahead of them at the top of the green, the flap pinned open to reveal a smattering of small wooden card tables and chairs. A few ladies and gentleman were seated inside, drinking tea and eating sugared buns.

“I believe Miss Winnifred is one of the ladies doling out refreshments this year,” Mark warned him. “If that affects your decision.”

“I’m aware.” Black tugged at his shirt collar—an uncharacteristically self-conscious gesture. “Once more unto the breach,” he muttered before striding off.

Watching him duck into the tea tent, it was all Mark could do to contain a laugh. So, it was like that, was it? He felt a fool for not having realized it before.

He wondered what else he’d missed among the members of his parish. He’d been so besotted with Beryl—so twisted in knots over her marriage to Henry—that he’d been incapable of seeing straight.

But things were different now.

Everything was different.

He made his way toward Beryl’s stall. Her arms were folded on the ledge of it, the bell-shaped sleeves of her summer day dress pillowing there in a froth of fabric.

As he drew closer, she cast a look in his direction. Catching sight of him at last, her mouth curved in a smile. It illuminated her entire face, sparking an answering glow within Mark’s breast.

He smiled back at her. A foolish, besotted smile, no doubt. He lengthened his stride, but before he could reach her, a villager moving in the opposite direction shoved past him, slamming hard against his shoulder. An aroma of sour sweat and gin followed after the man.

Mark turned to confront him and came face-to-face with Bert Priddy.