Page 37

L ark feared she might truly go mad. Multiple days indoors would do that to anyone, but to her? She couldn’t take it any longer.

Sitting in the drawing room with the other women, she stared at her journal in her lap. Over the last few days, she’d spotted only three birds from the window, and each time, they’d been so far away, she hadn’t been able to decipher what they were.

After such disappointment, she’d resigned herself to looking at the birds in her books.

But not even that had managed to capture her attention today, so she’d turned her focus to updating her lists—her lifelong list, the birds she’d written down for the challenge with Mr. Branok, and the ones she’d cataloged for Mr. Chumley’s future use.

That had only taken half the morning, however, so now, she sat near the window, staring mindlessly at her journal as the other women sat near the fire with their stitching.

“I’ve a cousin who lives near here,” Mrs. Shepherd was saying. “in Coniston, I believe. Amy Paxton. Although, I suppose it is Amy Eastwood now. She married Mr. William Eastwood not too long ago.”

She continued speaking of how her cousin came to move to the Lake District, and Lark did her best to listen, but soon, her mind wandered as she stared at the raindrops sliding down the window.

She enjoyed walking in the rain. The cold was always invigorating, and the sound tranquil.

She wasn’t allowed to walk in it very often, though.

Aunt and Uncle truly cared for her well-being, and she understood their concern, but she’d always had trouble remaining indoors during rainstorms ever since Mr. Yates.

He hadn’t ever allowed her out in the rain.

His was not for care, but for control. If she did venture forth, he had taken to berating her for days, criticizing her, and threatening to withhold his supposed love from her.

Ever since then, remaining indoors and not having the freedom to explore on her own, always brought back those unpleasant memories.

Lark pressed her eyes together, squeezing the thoughts out as she laid her head against the back of her chair.

“Poor Miss Fernside,” Mrs. Chumley said from across the room. Lark looked over to see compassion in the woman’s eyes. “You must be so terribly bored, my dear.”

Lark forced a smile. “I am well enough. Though, I do wish for the rain to cease.”

“As do we all,” Mrs. Shepherd agreed.

“Indeed,” Aunt Harriet said.

“I become restless when I cannot walk outside,” Mrs. Chumley continued.

“When Mr. Chumley leaves for weeks at a time, I grow ever so weary. That is why I forced myself upon this expedition with him,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.

“And why I coerced him into bringing women along this time, too.”

Lark smiled. The woman must be a force to be reckoned with in her marriage. She seemed so softspoken and passive.

Mrs. Shepherd looked at Lark. “You must simply find something to do to occupy your attention, Miss Fernside. Do you have any stitching? If my hands are busy, so are my thoughts.”

Lark agreed. But not even drawing helped this morning. “Thank you. But I’m content enough to sit here for the time being.”

“Poor dear,” Mrs. Chumley repeated with a sigh. “This is why husbands come in such use. If you ever change your mind about matrimony, Miss Fernside, you must find a husband who does not mind the rain and loves birds as much as you do, my dear. Then you shall be able to do all sorts of things.”

Lark tensed. She so despised this conversation. No woman could ever understand her desire to remain unmarried. Then again, no woman understood the heartache she went through with Mr. Yates.

No woman aside from Aunt Harriet. She glanced at Lark with a wary smile, but Lark gave her a settling nod. When she was younger, she’d found it difficult to stand up for herself. Now, however, she was more than capable of doing so.

“Thank you for the suggestion,” Lark said genuinely, then she stood from her chair and closed her book. “I do believe I shall take Mrs. Shepherd’s advice and find my stitching. If you will excuse me, ladies. I shall return in a moment.”

They nodded, and Lark gave Aunt another reassuring smile before leaving the room. In the corridor, she finally allowed her shoulders to fall and her smile to fade away.

She would not be returning to the drawing room. Not that morning, anyway. She’d been indoors for long enough—she’d been subjected to memories of Mr. Yates for long enough—that she was finished.

Donning her half-boots, pelisse, bonnet, and thick gloves, she sent a note to Aunt to let her know she should not expect Lark to return for an hour, then slipped down the stairs in silence.

She did not breathe easily until she left the confines of Greygrove behind and stepped onto the wet, green grass at the back of the manor.

There, she paused, allowing the tapping of the rain on her bonnet to fill her senses and the cool air around her to fill her lungs. This was precisely what she’d needed. She was feeling better already.

While fully aware that the drawing room was on the other side of the house and the gentlemen were still on their walk, Lark still wished for privacy. So, with a smile—a true smile—on her lips, she crossed the grounds in peace toward the thick grove of trees at the back of the property.

The wind slipped around the nape of her neck, invigorating her steps and pushing her forward until she was in the shelter of the trees. There, she removed her bonnet and raised her face to the branches above, allowing the few droplets of moisture that slipped past the leaves to caress her face.

Finally, she’d escaped. Finally, she felt free. It was as if she’d stood up to Mr. Yates all over again, and the notion was intoxicating.

She drew deep breaths, relishing in the moisture on her eyelashes and lips, her smile growing ever wider.

But when a rustling sounded to the side of her, followed by a swift clacking, she paused, whirling around to face the direction from which the sound had come.

Nothing was there. Her heart raced, her breathing stinted as she strained to hear the noise again.

A minute passed by. Then two. She was beginning to believe she’d imagined the noise. But after another moment, the clacking came again, as if someone hit two pieces of wood against each other.

Lark tiptoed forward, straining to see through the thick bushes and grass.

More rustling. More clacking. Whatever it was, it sounded large. But then, what on earth could it be? A deer? A badger?

A warning voice from within told her to keep her distance, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she crept closer and closer to the unpredictable noises until finally, she caught sight of something large and grey in a small clearing of trees, rain pouring down upon the mound.

As she finally recognized what she saw, her breath was snatched away.

There, in the center of the clearing, caught in a bird snare, was a large, tawny owl.

Her brown and white feathers resembled the trunks of the trees around them, and her black eyes—perfect, still orbs—continuously looked around her.

Lark was absolutely certain the owl had already seen her. But still, she remained silent, hoping the creature knew she was safe with Lark.

And yet, the owl continued to click its beak—a sign of its feeling threatened. Lark remained where she was, dropping her bonnet to the ground and lowering herself between the branches, straining to see where the owl was caught or if she was injured.

One of her white legs was stuck in between the wires, her black talons large and on full display as she attempted to rid herself of the snare, but her effort was to no avail.

Anger surged through Lark. The snare had no doubt been laid to capture a pheasant or other game, but this was precisely the danger of setting them.

To capture and possibly injure a creature as beautiful as this owl?

It was unthinkable. Was the bird a young mother?

Had she been hunting at night and been stuck since then?

Were her babies starving and frightened?

Lark shook her head. She had to do something. She needed to do something.

Her mind raced, but with each solution, another problem arose. She could not safely release the owl on her own, that much was clear. None of the women back at the house were strong enough to help, and the men were long gone. A servant, perhaps? Maybe the very one who set the trap?

Leaving her bonnet behind, she backed away slowly, then sprinted toward the servant’s entrance the moment she reached the open grass.

However, as she neared the home, a gentleman rounded the side of the house, striding toward the back entrance, and she gasped.

He would help her.

“Mr. Branok?” she cried out. “Mr. Branok!”