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She pulled in her lips, then drew her attention outside instead of responding.

The green hills beyond them rose up and down, thick trees scattered playfully across the slopes.

What birds did they mask behind their leaves and branches?

She could hardly wait to walk amongst trees such as those and discover birds she’d not yet seen before.

“You must be a formidable bird observer to have fought so hard to come on this excursion,” Mr. Branok whispered.

All thought of those distant trees flittered from Lark’s mind. Was she a formidable bird observer? Or was she simply obsessed with Mr. Branok and would stop at nothing to learn from him?

The former. Most certainly the former.

“For how long have you observed them?” Mr. Branok asked next.

“Since I was a child.”

“And you said this was your first excursion?”

She nodded.

“You must be thrilled. Where else in England have you traveled?”

She strengthened her defenses. This topic always managed to pierce her pride.

“I have only ever spent time in London and Suffolk, where I call home. With how trying it is for Aunt and Uncle to travel—and with my mother’s lack of desire to visit anywhere but Town—it is quite difficult to go any farther than our little county.

” She paused, not wishing to sound ungrateful.

“But I am thankful for what I have seen.”

And that was the truth. She had observed well over one hundred unique birds in her little pocket of England alone, and that was more than a triumph.

But to Mr. Branok or any other specialized observer, the number would no doubt be an embarrassment to admit, so she redirected the attention to him instead.

“How old were you when you began your observations?” she asked.

He leaned back with a sigh. “I always loved being out of doors and observing birds, but I admit, I did not begin seriously until I was eighteen or so.”

She pulled back. “Truly? That is even more surprising, what with your list of accomplishments. And you cannot be above the age of…”

“Eight and twenty,” he finished.

Just a couple of years older than her six and twenty. And what had she accomplished? Nothing, short of inheriting a small fortune and deciding never to marry.

“I fear I neglect everything else to achieve that list of accomplishments,” he said. “But once one has seen more of the world, one cannot stop until one has seen it all.”

Lark had no experience with such matters and therefore fell silent, but Mr. Branok continued, his eyes distant.

“There is nothing that quite compares to observing a bird in the wilds of Africa or the Americas,” he said. “Should the opportunity ever present itself to you, I would highly recommend traveling beyond England.”

Lark pursed her lips with a silent nod. Had she not just explained why that would never happen?

Not only was she not of age to make such decisions herself or without the approval of her mother, she also did not have the companionship of one who wished to travel with her.

She had resigned herself to being old and grey before she could explore the world, and she was attempting to be patient with that fact.

Yet, when other bird observers discovered her lack of exploration, she felt as if she had to prove that she still held value in the community—that she was still worthy of being a part of gatherings, excursions, conversations, and sightings.

More often than not, however, when she met with the local bird observing groups or she managed to find gatherings in London, she was ignored, passed over, and very clearly humored if anyone did chance to look at her or speak with her.

The fact that they did not accept her—simply because she had not seen as much as they had—always left her feeling jaded and regretfully cynical.

Mr. Branok had been nothing but kind to her and would have no notion that his words had stirred this turmoil within her.

As such, she attempted to set her defenses aside, but the pride within her refused to be satiated, and her compulsive need to prove that she was more than happy with her circumstances strengthened—even if, truth be told, she was not pleased with them at all.

“Have you any desire to travel beyond England?” Mr. Branok asked next, apparently unaware of why she remained silent.

“I suppose,” she said stiffly. “But I am quite content with what I have already seen in the east of England.”

“Truly? I consider it a shame you haven’t been able to see more.”

Lark’s lips parted, but she snapped them closed once again. He was merely expressing an opinion, that was all. At any rate, he spoke the truth. It was a shame she hadn’t seen more.

“Observing the sketches in books and articles certainly satisfies my desire to see other birds,” she lied.

Pulling her lips to the side, she continued, wishing to end on the truth instead.

“The written word has allowed me to see far more than I ever would have dreamed, and I will be forever grateful for the books I have read that have provided me with literary trips around the world.”

Including Mr. Branok’s books. But she wasn’t about to admit to that now.

“Books are worth their weight in gold,” he agreed, his eyes on her again.

“After all, I have written seven volumes—now eight—in an effort to share my experiences with others so that they might know of the vast number of birds there are of all colors and sizes. Reading about the creatures certainly helps those less fortunate than I. But nothing could ever compare to seeing birds in person. Surely you agree.”

Of course she did. She was not a simpleton. But she did not like this superior tone he had assumed. Not one bit.

Eight books…Vast number of birds…Those less fortunate.

She longed to scoff at his putting himself above others—including herself.

She doubted he was attempting to sound as pretentious as he did.

But his pressuring her to agree with him prickled her pride further.

He was accurate in his description of himself before—he had clearly lacked the influence of fine Society for the better part of five years.

Still, she needed to manage decorum. Anything she said to Mr. Branok might get back to Mr. Chumley, despite the former seeming trustworthy enough. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

“I suppose,” she replied simply.

His eyes burned a hole in her temple, but she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she observed Aunt and Uncle for a moment, willing them to awaken so that she might extricate herself from the conversation, but of course, they remained asleep.

Just as she suspected, Mr. Branok spoke again. “You mean to say you believe seeing sketches of birds in a book is the same as seeing birds in reality?”

Lark needed to retreat before she said something she regretted. But once more, she could not bring herself to abandon her pride. “I meant to say that seeing sketches of birds is better than seeing nothing at all.”

Mr. Branok was silent for a moment. “But I was specifically asking if you thought seeing birds in books was better than seeing them alive… with your own two eyes.”

Just be humble for once in your life, Lark Fernside.

Drawing a deep breath, she swallowed her vanity. “Certainly not.”

She’d hoped relinquishing her opinion would have ended the conversation. Unfortunately, Mr. Branok was not quite finished.

“I am happy to hear your stance is the same as mine,” he replied. “After all, if one merely looked at birds in books alone, could he or she call himself or herself a true observer of birds? I think not.”

Annoyance swarmed in her chest. She ought not speak. She ought to lay the conversation to rest. And yet…she couldn’t.

She shifted her person away from Aunt and Uncle, no longer caring if they awakened or not as she turned to face Mr. Branok squarely. “So you believe that those who look at sketches of birds are not called true observers merely because they observe drawn birds instead of living ones?”

“Well, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “They are not observing birds, then. They are observing drawings. They cannot compare.”

Lark could see his reasoning. But the way he said it with such resoluteness, as if he believed himself to be the most accurate gentleman in all the world and no one could ever persuade him otherwise—it irked her beyond reason, and all her sensible warnings flew away from her grasp.

“What would you say in regard to those who are restricted to their homes yet still have a deep and abiding love for the creatures?” she pressed. “Would you dare tell them that they are not true observers?”

He shifted toward her, then, too, that twinkle in his eye missing, replaced with a narrowed gaze. She was only vaguely aware of how close their knees were to touching, but she was so frustrated with the conversation, she couldn’t be bothered to pull away.

“But what person could not manage to leave one’s home to see the birds in one’s own community?” he asked. “Even you manage that.”

Lark’s mouth dropped open. This time, she did not care to close it. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Branok didn’t look repentant in the least. In fact, he had the audacity to raise a shoulder in a flippant shrug. “You’ve spoken of your unfortunate circumstances. What excuses do others have if even you can manage to leave your home to see what few birds you have?”

Lark could hardly believe his ungentlemanly words—highlighting her unfortunate circumstances and assuming the number of birds she hadn’t seen.

She supposed this was the real Mr. Branok. He was not old and bald and bored of birds, nor was he benevolent and inclusive. Instead, he was just like the rest of them—the type of person to exclude individuals from the community simply because they did not fit into his idea of what they ought to be.

How wrong she had been about him. And how her admiration for him crumbled beneath her like a foundation made of sand.