‘With wildflowers still in bloom,’ she said with a happy sigh.
He remembered her bouquet. ‘Yes.’
‘And insects, of course,’ she said. Once again, she surprised him by making no distasteful grimace. Instead, she seemed to approve of the fact.
‘Do you collect them?’ he asked.
‘You mean dead and on pins?’ She shuddered. ‘It has always seemed to me a barbarous way to treat one of God’s creatures, even small ones.’
‘You do not swat flies?’ he teased.
She snorted. ‘Of course I do, and midges as well. But once I have done, I do not save the corpse under glass as a trophy.’
‘Sometimes, for scientific purposes…’ he began.
‘If one wishes to study an animal, it is far more interesting to watch it go about its daily business. Ants, for example, are fascinating creatures. Have you ever dropped a lump of sugar on an ant hill? There is such joyful industry when they discover it.’
‘You find ants to be joyful?’ Now he was simply baffled.
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps not in the way butterflies seem to be. And they are another type of creature that does not deserve an early memorial beneath glass in the drawing room. Butterflies are nothing but pressed sadness when deprived of flight and energy.’
‘But ants…’ he reminded her.
‘Ants are good little Protestants,’ she replied. ‘If you look at them under a magnifying glass, you will find they have no faces to smile with. But that does not mean that they are not happy, in their own way. I am sure you would approve of the speed and organisation used to dismantle a sugar lump. It is positively military.’
‘Ants do have wars,’ he allowed.
She gave him a disappointed shake of her head for even knowing such a thing. ‘I prefer to imagine them filling their larders under the ground and contemplating their full stomachs with satisfaction.’
‘Happy ants,’ he said.
‘I suspect you have enough of them on ten acres to keep me busy for many afternoons to come. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get ready to depart.’
She reached past him for one more slice of toast before escaping to her room to call the maid.
* * *
George was ready to leave before the horses were fully harnessed. It was not because she cared for Mr Challenger’s opinion. Rather, she detested foolish delays. Let no one say the departure was postponed because the lady of the house was searching under the bed for lost ribbons. It also helped that she had begun her packing yesterday morning, after her conversation with Christian.
But that was not a thing she needed to share with her husband. He had been very angry of late and would be even angrier to discover that she had manipulated his rage to her own advantage.
But she was still unsure what she had done that actually bothered him so. She had spent time with his family. Was that not better than associating with strangers? She had played cards at his club. But she had not lost any money, nor had she partaken of any of the truly scandalous activities that had been happening all around them.
And she’d allowed him to kiss her. That could not be wrong, could it? Kissing was something husbands and wives were supposed to do. If how she felt afterwards was any indication, they were very good at doing it. If she was doing it wrong, the least he could do was tell her so, that she might improve.
After breakfast, he seemed to be in a better humour, giving her an approving nod at her speedy preparations. She had selected a small trunk of necessary clothing and saw that it was loaded on to the top of the carriage. The rest would follow with Polly, tomorrow.
When the coachman helped her up into the carriage, she was surprised to see Pootah, the bird, sitting in his brass cage on the seat beside her.
‘He is coming with us?’ she asked.
‘He is your responsibility,’ Frederick said, giving her another aloof look. ‘Until you can retrain him, he is not fit company for my sisters.’
‘You want me to make him talk?’ she asked.
‘I want you to make him stop,’ he corrected. ‘The ladies in my family may not understand, but it discommodes me to hear him shouting “whore” each time one of them enters the room.’
‘You mean…?’
