Next, a brilliant wheatear, scurrying along the twig-and-leaf-strewn floor of the leafy bower.
After that, a clutch of whinchats—so many ground dwellers today—hunting for food, fattening up for the impending journey to their winter home, a continent away.
Drew had just reached for her birding journal when she heard the snap of a twig behind her. She went still, not wanting to frighten it away—whatever “it” might be. She held her breath. Another twig snapped, then the rustle of leaves. Drew listened carefully for a bird song or, if it was an animal, the snuffle and gnawing of foraging.
Instead a familiar voice called, “Hello?”
Drew almost dropped the journal. It was Lachlan’s voice; hushed but unmistakable.
Lachlan.Here.Winding through this copse of trees in Hampstead, miles from Pollen Street.
She pivoted on the stump, and yes—there he was. He stood four yards away, boot up on a fallen log, batting away the frond of a path-blocking shrub.
She blinked at him, trying to make sure. A penguin would not have surprised her more.
“Hello,” she answered, cautiously, struggling to stand on uneven sod.
He looked beautiful in the dappled sunlight soaking through the autumn leaves, tall and broad-shouldered. His overcoat hung long, billowing slightly in the breeze.
But why had he come? Was he angry she’d fled the house with the girls? Did he require something.
Oh God, has my mother returned?
Or, perhaps her mother had made such an impression, he sought her out to discuss it.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he began.
“No disruption,” she said.
“Will I ruin your observation, if I come closer?”
She chuckled a little at this. Any self-preserving bird had long-since fled. She shook her head.
He stepped over the log and walked the distance to her, stooping to duck low-hanging branches, stepping over divots in the moss.
If she said it didn’t thrill her to see this beautiful man, clever, and strong, and decent, making his way through the brambles and briars of Hampstead to her—onlyto her, there was no other reason for him to be here—she would be lying.
If she was afraid, truly afraid, that he’d come here to chastise her, to dismiss her, it was a fear as dreaded and as horrible as any she’d known.
But he did not look dismissive or angry. He looked... concerned. And curious. And a little unsettled by the wildness of her surroundings. He frowned at the stump on which she’d sat and the carpet of slick moss, shockingly, almost acidic green. Beyond that, autumn foliage had begun to decay on the ground. In the distance, the black pond was obscured by mist. Overhead, a kestrel flew just above the canopy, calling out its squeaky, high-pitchedkee-kee-kee.
“Hello,” he said again, coming to her.
“Hello,” she said. It felt so very good to actually lookupwhen she spoke to him.
“You left without a word,” he said.
“Oh yes. Well. I didn’t want to bother you. I thought the girls could stand for an outing. And I find the outdoors—this place specifically—very settling after...” A deep breath. “Well, after I’ve dealt with my mother.”
“I’m glad. But I wish I’d known. Unless... you prefer to be alone?”
“I have no preference. I would’ve included the girls, but I’d hoped to spot the last of the migratory birds before they’re off to Africa, and bird-watching can be . . . restricting. I didn’t want to impose the silence and stillness on them. Also,I felt they could use some time alone with Lady Tribble. She consented to come, surprising us all. Imogene most of all, I think. I’ve left Buellis looking after them. I hope they aren’t—”
“They’re fine,” he said, stalking around the stump. “Feeding the contents of the picnic to geese. And to Buellis. At this point, I believe the old man is undecided whether he’s been given the best job or the worst job of the day.”
She laughed.
“They showed me the path you’d taken,” he said, “and begged me to prevent you from returning. Something about missing the arithmetic tutor, I believe.”
