Page 17

Chapter 6

Lark could not contain her excitement as the carriage carted them away from the busy streets of London and out into the fresh air and open roads of the countryside. What a dream she was living, setting off on her first excursion while being seated right next to arguably the greatest bird observer of her time.

She was glad to have cleared the air between them, if only so she could now sit back and enjoy listening to his tales of his exhibitions all over the world. The East and West Indies, South Africa, Norway, Greenland—she listened to him speak about them all as Uncle continually and skillfully maneuvered the conversation away from Lark’s very near obsession with Mr. Branok and his written knowledge about birds.

“Now, have you been to India yet?” Uncle asked at one point.

“I have not had the great pleasure to, no,” Mr. Branok responded. “Though I must admit it has been a dream of mine for many years.”

Uncle continued, doing so well with his engagement that by the third hour, Lark was certain Mr. Branok was going to lose his voice. Lark could not complain, however, for she lapped up the gentleman’s words as if she were a parched dog at a fresh stream.

By the time they stopped for luncheon at the inn in Luton in Bedfordshire, she was certain Mr. Branok was in sore need of rest, despite his enthusiasm in graciously responding to Uncle’s inquiries.

However, Mr. Branok seemed doomed to speak forever, as the moment he exited the carriage, he was set upon by the Chumleys and the Shepherds asking after him and his journey.

Mr. Chumley paid no heed to Lark, and by extension, her aunt and uncle, in the process. Fortunately, Uncle Francis and Aunt Harriet—who had both spent the carriage ride feigning wellness—were in clear need of respite.

“Mr. Branok’s conversation was a lovely distraction, was it not?” Aunt Harriet asked in a weak voice as the three of them sat at their own table near the back of the inn.

Her features were contorted in distress, but the color had returned to her skin somewhat, leaving behind the sickly green she’d tried to hide in the carriage.

“His experiences in the West Indies were remarkable to listen to,” Uncle Francis agreed.

He did not appear as colorless as Aunt Harriet did, as his malady revealed itself in the form of headaches instead of nausea. However, he had often winced in the carriage as he experienced an equal level of discomfort—despite managing to push past his pain to speak with Mr. Branok.

Lark suspected their pretended wellbeing would not last for the latter leg of their journey, and sure enough, after returning to the carriages, Uncle and Aunt both fell fast asleep within a matter of minutes.

Aunt Harriet rested her head on Uncle as he leaned against the frame of the carriage, the couple a picture of peace that Lark desperately needed to see. She knew no small amount of guilt for having requested the two of them on this journey, knowing how carriage rides pained them so, and she would do whatever it took for them to feel her gratitude for their sacrifice.

However, soon enough, thoughts of her aunt and uncle faded away as Lark became all too aware of the fact that she and Mr. Branok were now essentially alone.

She chanced a glance at him, but thankfully his focus was centered out of his window. Had he noticed Aunt and Uncle sleeping? Or had he simply chosen to politely ignore them all so that he might rest, as well?

Either way, Lark would not disturb him. Opening her journal, she flipped through the pages, examining the sketch she’d made that morning of the house sparrow. She’d seen the bird a hundred times over across Suffolk and London, but she’d decided long before the excursion that she would compile a list of each bird she would see on this journey and gift the collection of birds to Mr. Chumley. That way, if he so desired, he could use her list to persuade others to join in his next excursion.

Overhearing him speak with Mr. Branok about women not having a place on such journeys merely amplified her desire to create the list, if only to prove Mr. Chumley’s pretentious words wrong.

Hateful man. She had so longed to make herself known to him after overhearing his words, but she’d managed to hold her tongue in that one instance at least. She really shouldn’t have been listening in the first place, but she had convinced herself that she’d needed to know what he said to Mr. Branok so that she might defend herself after the fact—which, inevitably, she had.

But then, Mr. Branok had made everything well again by welcoming her on the excursion himself. She knew he was not the host, but as he was the guest of honor—and as he knew more about bird observing than Mr. Chumley and undoubtedly the rest of the party combined—Lark would put his words above the others readily.

She watched him from the corner of her eye for a moment, his fingers laced together on his lap, knees apart in a comfortable manner, and broad shoulders resting against the back of his seat. His eyes were still focused outside, and with the angle of his turned head, the ridge in his neck and the sharp corner of his tanned jawline were just visible above his crisp, white collar.

He was astonishingly handsome. She had wondered earlier if he was married until her eavesdropping had succinctly given her that answer. He had chosen to remain single, just like she had. Would that she could ask after his reasoning.

He shifted beside her, stretching out his legs for a moment with what little space he’d been allotted across from Uncle Francis, then moved back to his same position from before. Was he restless, perhaps? Wishing he was traveling by ship to some distant country so that he might smell the salty sea air and stretch his legs to his heart’s content—rather than moving about England in a stuffy, rumbling box?

At least the day was cool enough so they would not be made to suffer through sweltering heat. Still, she wished she could distract him. Reassure him that this expedition would be one of his finest. After all, how could it not be when one had the chance to explore one’s native land?

Or perhaps she ought to tell him the truth about her bringing his collection of his works—and how many times over she’d read them. She’d decided to behave around Mr. Chumley, if only to remain on the tour, but surely Mr. Branok would not mind a bit of praise.

Then again, at the thought of how he might tease her, she hesitated. Her pride was still resistant to admitting how greatly she admired him.

No, not him. His works.

Before she could follow through with any errant thought, Mr. Branok startled her by speaking first, shifting his attention to her in a soft whisper. “I know you do not approve of this way of speaking, but I trust you will allow my whispers now to avoid disturbing them?”

She looked at him in surprise, noting the twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll allow it,” she whispered back, attempting to respond in the same casual manner. “For their sake.”