Page 27

“I believe it has to do with the lack of focus husbands are prone to have,” Mr. Branok responded in a softer whisper. “How they long for the comfort of their wives.”

Mr. Chumley huffed out a laugh. “If the man knew my level of desperation to escape my wife for a few months, he would not hesitate to include me as his most focused expedition member.”

Lark scowled. The man certainly had a lot of nerve to speak such things about his wife who was just out of earshot.

Her eyes rebelliously wandered toward the gentlemen who were hunched down in the grass, Mr. Chumley’s focus on Mr. Branok, and Mr. Branok’s eyes on the nest.

That is, until they connected with hers. Instead of pulling her gaze away at once, however, Lark locked onto him, hoping to share her disapproval—with their speaking and their topic of conversation.

Before long, Mr. Branok looked away with a lowered gaze, and she pulled her attention to the nest with satisfaction. She wouldn’t waste a single moment longer on the men. Neither of them was worth her time.

She peered through the gap in the wall. The moss and grey feathers the birds had been gathering all week had been fashioned into a proper nest with sturdy walls in a clear bowl shape, though the lingering remains of the bottom of the nest poured out over the stone wall like a petrified waterfall.

How could a bird with only a beak and claws create such a thing? It was quite impressive, really. Almost?—

“Lord Blackstone,” Mr. Chumley said, interrupting her thoughts once more. “Where have I heard that name?”

Mr. Branok didn’t respond. Had Lark’s look hushed him for good?

“He wouldn’t be the viscount who started the Blackstone’s Club in London, would he?” Mr. Chumley asked. “I do not know much about clubs, but I’ve heard it is one for misfits.”

He gave a humored laugh, but silence followed.

Lark did everything she could to keep her eyes from Mr. Branok, but she could no longer help herself after his continued silence. Stealing a quick glance at him, she noticed the look of discomfort rushing across his features.

“Yes, that is the very one,” he replied.

Mr. Chumley paused. “You are a member?”

“I am. Though, I’ve never put much stock into gentlemen’s clubs.”

Mr. Chumley cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. Certainly. Nor I. Although if it allows me to go on an expedition…” He ended with a light chuckle, and Mr. Branok smiled tightly in response.

Lark narrowed her eyes. Why did he appear to close off when Lord Blackstone was mentioned? Did he take issue with the man?

Before she could presume an answer, Mr. Branok’s eyes fell on her again, but this time, she looked away first.

Redstarts. Focus on the redstarts.

And yet, between Mr. Dunn’s shining head, Mr. Chumley’s continuous, oblivious words, and Mr. Branok’s strange reaction to Lord Blackstone, Lark had no chance of focusing.

She tried to tamp down her curiosity, but the questions continued to assail her absent mind. Why did Lord Blackstone only allow misfits to join his club? And more importantly, how on earth did Mr. Branok fit into that category?

Perhaps she could ask Uncle Francis. He, himself, was a part of White’s—or was it Beetle’s? Boodle’s? Well, whatever it was, he prided himself on being a member of a gentlemen’s club and would no doubt have heard of Blackstone’s.

Then again, why did she care anyway if Mr. Branok was a part of it or not? The short answer was that she did not care. Or rather, she was trying hard not to.

Time slowly crept by, a half hour passing in the same manner as the sun stretched higher and higher into the sky before Lark finally acknowledged her inability to ignore the gentlemen and therefore gave up entirely, listening to their conversation unabashedly as it shifted from Blackstone’s to India to, inevitably, birds.

“Now, tell me more about this redstart,” Mr. Chumley asked. “How many eggs do they lay?”

“A dozen,” Mr. Branok responded. “When other birds typically lay half that.”

Lark paused, swinging back to look at them. That…that was not accurate.

“Heavens, a dozen,” Mr. Chumley mused. “And the color?”

“They are speckled, yellow and brown.”

That was also inaccurate.

“They’re typically in the tops of tall trees,” Mr. Branok continued. “Conifers, I believe. So this is strange to see one in the crevice of a wall.”

Once again, wrong. But now she understood. He must have confused the redstart with the golden-crested wren. She supposed it was easy enough to confuse the two, what with them both being small and both in Yorkshire for a time…but beyond that, the similarities ended.

“And what of their eating habits?” Mr. Chumley asked next.

“Insects, primarily. I believe…”

His words trailed off as he caught Lark’s gaze, and only when he appeared confused did she realize she still stared.

She debated whether or not to correct him, then settled on the latter, looking away without a word.

Correcting him would only push her to speak with him, and she’d determined to never do that again.

“I believe,” Mr. Branok began again carefully, as if expecting Lark to interrupt him with another stare, “they also eat the eggs and larvae of select insects.”

“Fascinating.”

Lark pressed her lips together. She didn’t need to correct him. The gentlemen would be happy enough in their ignorance. Obviously, Mr. Branok knew the difference and had simply confused the two birds, but that was more than fine.

She stared harder at the nest—the nest that would not be housing speckled, yellow and brown eggs—willing her ears to tune out the men, but their conversation continued.

“Redstarts also remain in England year-round,” Mr. Branok began. “And…just a moment…that cannot be right.”

Lark closed her eyes, fighting the urge to look at him for as long as possible before finally relenting. She glanced over at him, a crease between his brows as he fell deep in thought.

He must have realized he was mixing up the birds. Would he come to the conclusion on his own which ones he’d confused?

“I fear I cannot remember correctly if that is the redstart or…” Mr. Branok paused again.

Do not say anything, Lark. Do not. Do not.

But her tongue had a will of its own. “You’ve confused the redstart with the golden-crested wren,” she whispered.

Mr. Chumley didn’t look at her, having obviously learned to tune her out by now. But Mr. Branok stared at her.

“Pardon?” he asked.

Lark finally met his gaze, fully aware of Mr. Chumley watching her now, too.

“The Redstart does not remain in England year-round but leaves in the autumn. Furthermore, their eggs are in number, only half a dozen, and they boast a shade of pale blue within their nests which are almost always fashioned in cracks and crevices. It is the golden-crested wren that lays a dozen eggs of a yellow variety in conifer trees.”

Mr. Branok, to his credit, at least appeared to contemplate her words, but Mr. Chumley instantly brushed her off with an intolerant scoff.

“Thank you, Miss Fernside, but I fear I am more inclined to believe our resident expert on bird observing.” He lowered his voice further. “One who has left his own county.”

His condescending smile was the last straw—as was Mr. Branok’s continued silence. Praise Heaven for Penelope and the knowledge she’d given Lark, for now she could finally defend herself without repercussions.

She faced the men directly with a smile of her own.

“Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Chumley, but if you prefer to believe Mr. Branok, I suggest you take your own advice, for my words about the golden-crested wren have come directly from Mr. Branok’s own volumes of work.

As for my information about the redstart, I’m afraid you’ll have to take Thomas Bewick’s word for it, as he documents his findings in his book, A History of British Birds .

Now, correct me if I am wrong, but I do not believe our resident expert” —she paused, giving Mr. Branok a fleeting, unimpressed look—“has seen a redstart before. You must forgive a simpleminded girl who has not seen much beyond her own little county, but I am apt to believe Mr. Bewick’s firsthand account instead of one who has not seen the bird at all. ”

She ended with a pleasant smile, noting Mr. Branok’s distinct lack of response, then directly faced the nest once again, feeling more than a little satisfied with Mr. Chumley’s indignant expression.

As for Mr. Branok, who remained silently watching her, Lark believed she’d finally managed to offend him.

And yet, the knowledge did not satisfy her.

In fact, it made her regret her harsh words, which annoyed her to no end.

The man deserved to be put in his place after he’d ignored her and offended her these last few days.

And what of forgiveness?

She stifled a sigh. When would her conscience give her a moment’s respite?

“I must apologize, Mr. Branok,” Mr. Chumley whispered. “She does not know…”

But his words faded away as Lark caught Mr. Branok shaking his head. “No, Miss Fernside is right. I confused the birds. I also have not seen a Redstart, so I am more apt to believe her research than my own memory.”

A fresh wave of guilt rushed over her, threatening to drown her entirely after correcting him unceremoniously. Mr. Branok was so humble, even though he had every right to be anything but.

She pressed a hand to her brow that pinched with regret, her ears beginning to ring.

Then she paused. That was not ringing.

That was a bird’s song.

The others must have heard it too, for silence marked the air for the first time that morning before the jovial twittering continued.

Lark snapped her attention toward the sky, and sure enough, the bird they’d awaited days for swooped into view.

Bounding through the air in flight, his orange, flaming tail sprawled out behind him in all its glory.

Lark observed it through the gap as the redstart hovered just above his nest, then flapped toward his home with a spare bit of moss in his beak.

Lark could hardly believe it. The redstart had finally appeared—and not a moment too late.

She watched in silence, marveling at his movements and his brown, white, and orange feathers, attempting to memorize every detail as she slowly retrieved her journal and began sketching and writing feverishly before he would inevitably depart.

After a few moments, movement occurred behind her, and she managed to tear her gaze away to find Mrs. Chumley and Mrs. Shepherd creep up behind her.

“Is it the redstart?” they mouthed out in sensible silence.

Lark nodded with a grin. They tried to peer over the wall, awkwardly crouching down in the grass, but Lark motioned them toward the crack, standing off to the side so they might have a better view.

They gasped and grinned, which made Lark all the happier. This was what it was all about. Bringing others to find the joy in bird observing.

The women remained there, but Lark was not finished with her own observations. She eyed the space to her right, but the men had drawn closer to see the redstart for themselves. If she joined them, she would have to stand directly beside Mr. Branok, and that was simply not an option.

There was plenty of space to her left, however, so she backed away slowly, keeping her eye on the nest so she did not miss a single moment of observing the bird.

Her skirts snagged onto a bramble, so she raised her hem, but just as she did so, her half-boot caught onto a hidden rock protruding from the grass, and she fell forward with a sharp inhale, catching herself with her hands in the grass just before she might have fallen on her face.

Her first thought was to keep quiet, praying the redstart hadn’t been scared off, but when her hands, arms, legs, and cheeks began to sting with unbearable pain, she gasped again, then again.

She scrambled back, still on her hands and knees, desperate to escape whatever insect was biting her over and over again, but in her panic, she finally caught sight of where she was.

Somehow, like a fool, she’d wandered and fallen directly into the patch of stinging nettle.

She could no longer hold it in, the pain far too acute, and a yelp escaped her lips, scaring off the redstart and alerting the others to her agony.