Page 8 of Fair as a Star

Mama turned to Beryl, her expression transforming into one of artificial cheer. At fifty years of age, she was still an acknowledged beauty, with her silvery blond hair and delicate features. Indeed, she and Winnifred resembled each other to an extraordinary degree. “Are you excited to see Sir Henry again?” she asked.

“Not excited, no. But it will be nice to see him. It’s been a long while.”

“And you won’t be glum, will you, my dear? We’re all done with that, aren’t we?”

Beryl forced a smile. It felt embarrassingly unnatural. A mockery of a smile, really. Inauthentic and brittle as glass. “I’m done with being glum.”

“Good girl.” Her mother was visibly relieved. “I prayed a holiday would do the trick. Hortensia was persuaded that all you required was a change. Never mind what that medical journal of Mr. Cooper’s advised.”

“You needn’t speak of that.”

“No, indeed. The vile thing. I’m glad you disposed of it.”

Beryl briefly looked away, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. The village surgeon, Mr. Cooper, had given Mama his copy of the Provincial Medical and Surgical Gazette last year. After reading the pages he’d marked, Mama had commanded Beryl to burn it. And Beryl had meant to. She really had. But when it came to the point, she’d been unable to do so.

The vile thing was presently tucked beneath Beryl’s mattress, its pages worn from reading and rereading.

“Your aunt and I knew what was best for you all along, didn’t we?” Mama beamed. “I won’t make light of things. I realize it’s been difficult, but—”

“It’s fine, Mama,” Beryl said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, darling. What a weight it’s been on my mind. And keeping it all a secret...well. It was necessary, I daresay.”

Beryl studied her mother’s face. “Did you keep it secret?”

Mama wandered to Beryl’s dressing table, idly straightening the silver-plated hairbrush set and cut-crystal bottle of elderflower water that adorned its polished walnut surface. “I may have mentioned a few of the details to Mr. Venable.”

“Mama!” Beryl’s embroidery slipped from her hands. “How could you? You promised me—”

“He’s the vicar. It’s his job to condole with his flock during difficult times. To be sure, he was quite a good listener, though he understands what ails you no more than I do.” Abandoning the dressing table, Mama came to sit down beside Beryl in the window. She slipped a slim arm around her shoulders. “Oh, don’t look so stricken. Mr. Venable won’t tell anyone. The confessional is sacrosanct.”

“We’re not papists, Mama.”

“No, but—”

“And the confidentiality of the confessional wouldn’t have stopped Mr. Venable from confiding in a fellow clergyman. He’ll have told Mark Rivenhall everything.”

“I’m sure he would do no such thing. And even if he had, what does it matter? Mr. Rivenhall is a curate. He won’t go spreading tales to Henry, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

No. Mark wouldn’t spread tales at all. But that was entirely beside the point. The fact was, Mark knew. He must have known. No wonder he’d acted so strangely when she’d gone to see him at the church. No wonder he’d looked at her, not like a friend, but like a—

She didn’t know what.

It was only later, as he’d walked her home, that he’d attempted to jolly her. An afterthought, no doubt. She was embarrassed to think of how she’d laughed. How she’d relaxed into their friendship as if nothing had changed.

“That’s all behind us,” Mama said. “All that unpleasantness. You’ll bathe and Mary will arrange your hair and you’ll put on that beautiful dress…” She squeezed Beryl’s shoulders. “Yes, all will be well. You shall see, my love.” She kissed Beryl’s cheek before rising and walking to the door. “Remember, no more gloom!”

As the door shut, Beryl leaned her head against the window. Outside, the leaves on the trees fluttered lazily in the afternoon breeze. Mama’s gardening basket and tools sat on the ground near the rosebushes, abandoned when Henry’s note had arrived from Rivenhall Park. Mama wanted nothing more than to see both of her daughters happily married.

She’d been widowed early in her own marriage, not long after Winnifred was born. Fortunately, her jointure had been generous enough to keep them in relative comfort, first at the family estate in Cornwall—until a distant cousin formally took up residence—and now at the Grange. They had no real luxuries to speak of, but there was little about which to legitimately complain. Mama was happy as she was, and would be happier still when Beryl and Sir Henry were married. And if Winnifred were to swiftly follow suit—to marry some lord or sir—Mama’s happiness would be complete.

Beryl felt guilty for being so difficult. She was soon to be Lady Rivenhall. A lofty title, to be sure. Only think of the good she might do. She should be effervescent. It wasn’t as if she was betrothed to a villain in a fairy tale. Henry was no ogre. He was handsome and honorable, albeit a little too somber on occasion. More importantly, she’d known him since she was fifteen. He was familiar to her. Comfortable.

His proposal last year hadn’t surprised her. And her acceptance hadn’t surprised him. Their future together had long been assured. Not because they were in love, or because of some passionate infatuation, but because they suited each other. Henry had seen that. It’s why he’d courted her. He’d recognized that she had the qualities necessary to make him a good wife.

She’d recognized it, too. It was the reason she’d accepted him. Why she’d been pragmatic instead of romantic. She’d thought only in terms of compatibility. It had seemed enough. A marriage built on friendship and mutual respect. A union that would see her and her family well taken care of. Such a match was beneficial to everyone.

Why then did she find it so difficult to smile? To show any excitement over the plans for her wedding? No one had forced her to accept Henry. It had been her own decision, made in full possession of her wits.