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Lark’s regret for interrupting her moment with Mr. Branok only amplified over the next few days, for the change in the gentleman was palpable. Not only did his stolen glances stop, but so did his sparkling eyes, teasing comments, and encouraging words.

He was not unkind by any means—indeed, he was still tenfold more respectful than Mr. Chumley and Mr. Dunn—but the marked difference was difficult to accept, causing the rest of the week to be more than trying for Lark and her declining mood.

On Wednesday, she gleaned great amounts of information from Mr. Branok about how to make better recordings in her field journal, including how to organize her findings, record weather and location, and write down specifics relating to the environment and habitat in which she observed the bird.

She wanted to share with him how grateful she was for his insight, how impressed she was with his advice and knowledge, but to her disappointment, the man spoke with everyone in the class but her.

On Thursday, he managed to compliment a sketch she’d made of a yellow-throated wood warbler—the exact bird she’d thought she’d seen when Mr. Drake had proposed to her.

This memory of Mr. Drake irritated her to a degree, but it was merely a mask to the hurt she felt for Mr. Branok’s continued disregard.

By Friday, any hurt or irritation she knew shifted entirely to desperation, so much so that she found herself motioning for Mr. Branok to sit near her for the meal in an effort to let him know that all was well—at least on her side.

However, the man mumbled an unintelligible excuse, then went out of his way to sit beside Mr. Chumley instead. A handful of those nearby saw the dismissive act and cast sympathetic glances toward Lark, which only proved to make her pride smart.

She reminded herself to forgive—just like she’d said she would the night they’d spoken together. After all, she knew he was merely behaving out of guilt and regret for nearly kissing her.

Yet, no matter how many times she reminded herself of those facts, her embarrassment festered until it molded to form a dense lump of anger within her heart.

His treatment of her was entirely unfair.

After all, she hadn’t asked for his attention.

She hadn’t asked him to tease her, to speak with her, to whisper with her, to flirt with her.

Granted, she had worn that blue dress on purpose, but then, she’d chosen to leave that evening for a reason.

She was—almost entirely—blameless in the situation, and now she was the one suffering because of it.

She was the one being humiliated in front of everyone because of him .

This knowledge proved to anger her further, so much so that when she retired each evening and was greeted by the sight of his books on her bedside table, she had to fight off any temptation she had to throw them all into the fire so that she might watch the flames devour the man’s written words.

However, she was intelligent enough to know the wealth of knowledge within them was beyond Mr. Branok’s ungentlemanly behavior.

So, night after night, they were left untouched on the table.

And night after night, her frustrations grew.

Yorkshire – April 19, 1817

When Saturday arrived, the party ventured forth once more toward the sheep farm in a final effort to spot the elusive redstart, which they still had yet to find.

Lark shored up her defenses to ride in the carriage with Mr. Branok, but it was to no avail, for when she joined the others near the coaches, she was approached by Uncle, who told her that he and Aunt Harriet would not be joining them.

“These roads are simply too much for your aunt, I’m afraid,” Uncle said regrettably, but Lark was not surprised.

Each day they’d traversed the winding journey to the farm, Aunt had spent the rest of the full day recuperating in bed while Uncle attended to her and Lark aimlessly wandered the grounds alone until dinner where only Uncle joined her.

“If we both do not go this evening,” Uncle continued, “I believe your aunt will finally feel up to joining us for dinner.”

Lark agreed at once, for Aunt Harriet had taken her meals so often in her room, the others were beginning to worry for her sake.

“Send her my love,” Lark said. “I will update you on what I find today.”

Uncle expressed his appreciation, then waved goodbye from the top step as Lark entered the coach behind Mrs. Chumley and Mrs. Shepherd—their husbands joining Mr. Branok in the final carriage behind them.

Lark spent the short drive thumbing through the pages of her field journal as Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Chumley expressed approval of her sketches and the information she shared about each new bird seen.

They marveled at the charming lapwing with its shining green plume atop its head like a feathered cap, and the fluffy, brown common chiffchaff with its twittering song Lark mimicked with a little whistle.

Seeing such birds and speaking with the women was a living dream come true after so many years, and while invigorated by her growing list, there also came the sense of frustration, for each time she added a new bird, she was once again reminded of her competition with Mr. Branok, which in turn frustrated her that she’d agreed to the challenge at all.

But the document they’d signed had been binding. So she would continue adding to her list, if only to prove to him that she was a force to be reckoned with.

Mrs. Chumley and Mrs. Shepherd continued with their admiration of the journal the entire journey to the farm, and while Lark knew they were simply being kind, she appreciated the gesture more than they would ever know.

“You must tell us if you spot this redstart we’ve heard so much about,” Mrs. Chumley said as they rolled down the road. “For if anyone has the ability and skill to spot it, it is surely you.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Shepherd agreed. “And you must point it out to our untrained eyes. I’m keen to see it.”

“You are both too kind,” Lark responded, though their generosity lit a brighter fire beneath her to find the bird—if only to return the gesture of kindness.

While she was looking forward to spending the next week on the east coast observing gulls, curlews, and especially the puffins, she was desperate to add that redstart to her list.

However, any hope she might have had to find the bird vanished as the morning wore on—and as the others in the party grew impatient.

Mr. Gibbon and the Kay brothers wandered toward the nearby forest instead, trying their luck for more birds within the trees, and Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Chumley lingered back by the carriage so they might speak more openly without fear of frightening off any creatures.

Mr. Dunn remained near the farm, as did Mr. Shepherd.

Both stood a dozen or so feet away from Lark, hunched down and hidden behind the stone wall perpendicular to the nest to keep their presence to a minimum—though Lark believed Mr. Dunn’s balding head glinting in the sunshine might have been the very thing preventing the redstarts returning to their home.

That…and Mr. Branok and Mr. Chumley’s conversation directly to her right.

She stifled a sigh of long-suffering as their whispers trailed toward her on the wind.

“The excursions are paid for in full by my benefactor,” Mr. Branok was saying. “I am very fortunate to have fallen into it.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Mr. Chumley said. “Traveling to Europe is one thing, but going to other countries is another ordeal entirely, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Branok agreed. “Most people come away with only a handful of birds unless they have proper guides. I looked into establishing an excursion outside of England a few years ago, but the costs were extortionate. Doing so without a benefactor isn’t worth the money, time, or effort.”

Lark’s chest tightened as she thought back to the last conversation she’d had with Mr. Branok about the cost of excursions. To give up on her dream now would be the ultimate blow to her spirits, so she flicked the feeling aside.

She didn’t care how much of her money she’d have to spend to see the world. She wasn’t a miser like these gentlemen. She would not give up for anything.

Mr. Chumley cleared his throat behind her. “Any chance you might recommend my name to join you on your next excursion, Branok?”

Lark held back a scoff. Had the man no shame? Couldn’t join an expedition based off his own merit, so he had to rely on a famed naturalist to bring him aboard?

“Oh, I…” Mr. Branok hesitated, and Lark fought the urge to look over at him. “I suppose I could if you truly wish me to do so, but I must be clear, Lord Blackstone does not allow married individuals to join the expeditions. At least not on his expense.”

Lord Blackstone sounded a bit too fastidious in Lark’s humble opinion, but she brushed the thought aside in a moment. She didn’t care one lick about this Lord Blackstone or Mr. Branok’s expeditions or Mr. Chumley’s begging.

She only cared about seeing these redstarts.

Seated behind her own section of the wall, she’d discovered a perfect view of the nest through a gap in the stones that allowed her to sit in the grass, instead of kneeling or hunching over like the others.

She would have told the rest of the party about her findings—shared in her wealth, so to speak—but the others had all moved farther east to avoid the patch of nettles to her left.

However, the devilish plants were far enough away for her to sit comfortably without any concern about touching the angry, pointed florae, so she remained still, silent, and content.

Until Mr. Chumley’s voice projected toward her again. “Why the stipulation?” he asked loud enough for even Mr. Dunn to turn around with a look of disapproval.

Lark couldn’t blame Mr. Chumley’s stupidity for speaking. He clearly knew very little about bird observation. But Mr. Branok was a skilled bird observer. He knew better than to disrupt silence with conversation.