Page 9 of Fair as a Star

Now, all that was left was to get up and get on with it.

Rousing herself from the window, she withdrew to the bath where she soaked in a rose-oil infused tub and washed her hair with eggs that had been beaten to a cream. Once Beryl’s hair was dry, Mary—the lady’s maid Beryl shared with her mother and sister—arranged Beryl’s thick tresses in a roll at her nape, securing it with a dozen hairpins and a matching set of lapis lazuli combs. Set on a background of gold, the glossy bluish-purple stones glimmered in the lamplight as Beryl at last stepped in to the voluminous silk taffeta skirts of her evening dress.

“Will you be wanting the evening bodice?” Mary asked.

“The day bodice.” The short, ruffled sleeves and low neckline of the evening bodice were better suited to a ball than a dinner at home. Mama might disagree, but Beryl felt no need to be so much on display. Not for Henry’s sake.

Mary helped her into the long-sleeved bodice, with its mother-of-pearl buttons and delicate silk belt. It fit as snugly as a custom-made kid glove.

Beryl set a hand at her waist. “It’s very tight.”

“Shall I cinch your corset another half inch?”

“No, no.” Beryl gave her a fleeting smile. “I shall just have to remember not to eat too much.”

Later, sitting in the drawing room with her mother, sister, and aunt, Beryl awaited the arrival of Sir Henry. Like most of the reception rooms at the Grange, the drawing room was elegant enough on its surface. However, looking with a critical eye, one could easily discern that the paper hangings were faded in places, the Turkish carpet singed near the fireplace, and the sofa and chairs in need of reupholstering.

Mama made do the best she could. She hadn’t much choice. Aunt Hortensia’s generosity never stretched to redecorating. A Londoner herself, she couldn’t see the sense in it. The Grange was a country house—far removed from fashionable society—and only theirs on lease.

“Pity Mr. Rivenhall was unable to join us,” Mama said. “We still wouldn’t have had even numbers, but it might have been less obvious.”

Beryl’s gaze jerked to her mother. “He couldn’t come?”

“He sent his regrets. I suppose he’s busy at church this evening, what with Mr. Venable ill. The poor fellow is stricken with a wasting disease. He hasn’t long, I gather.”

“Haven’t you any other neighbors you could have invited, Griselda?” Aunt Hortensia asked. “A gentleman for Winnifred? Or for yourself?”

Mama’s cheeks turned pink. “Really, Hortensia.”

“And why shouldn’t I matchmake for you?” Aunt Hortensia asked. “You’ve been widowed nearly twenty years. It’s high time you remarried.”

“You’ve been widowed twice as long, Aunt,” Winnifred pointed out.

Aunt Hortensia was the eldest sister of Beryl’s late father. A reputed beauty in her youth, she’d married early and well, only to be widowed within a year. On his death, her husband—Mr. Sheldrake—had left her the entirety of his vast fortune.

“That’s different, my girl. A wealthy widow has no cause to remarry. While a lady in your mother’s circumstances has every reason to do so.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Winnifred said. “There are no eligible gentlemen hereabouts. No one save Sir Henry and Mr. Rivenhall. And Simon Black, of course, but who would invite him anywhere?”

“Simon Black?” Aunt Hortensia raised her filigree lorgnette to her eyes to better examine Mama’s face.

“He’s the new doctor,” Mama said. “A proper physician, and a rather singular one at that. He arrived three months ago when old Mr. Cooper retired to Bath.”

Beryl stilled. “You didn’t tell me that Mr. Cooper had gone.”

Mama gave Beryl a blank look. “Should I have mentioned it? It seemed of no account.”

“I’d like to have known.” It would have been a decided weight off of Beryl’s mind. She’d been plagued with worry over running into Mr. Cooper again ever since she’d left Paris. At the time, she’d believed he was the only one—outside of Mama and Aunt Hortensia—who knew the truth of why she’d left Shepton Worthy so abruptly last year. Indeed, if not for Aunt Hortensia’s intervention, Mama might have taken Mr. Cooper’s terrible advice on the subject.

And then where would Beryl be? Not at home, certainly. Not at liberty.

But now he was gone, that wretched man. She should be relieved. Overjoyed. And yet…

How could she be? Mr. Cooper might be gone, but Mr. Venable was still here. Mark was still here. And they both knew everything.

Everything.

The very thought of it depressed her spirits to an extraordinary degree.