Page 44

And yet, with each conversation, she continued speaking with Mrs. Chumley—ignoring all mention of the redstart they’d hoped to see that morning, the birds they wished to see in Cumbria and Cornwall, and the facts they’d discussed that morning in class about the woodcock.

However, when the conversation naturally shifted to lifelong lists—including the birds the party had seen on their own and throughout the excursion—Miss Fernside’s eyes were finally drawn to the others around the table.

Of course, Henry had them all beaten with his list of just over a thousand unique birds, though he insisted on not being included in this particular comparison. After that, the others shared theirs—the Kay brothers’ one hundred and eleven and one hundred and six, Mr. Gibbon’s ninety-three, Mrs. Chumley’s twenty-seven, and Mr. Chumley’s eighty-nine—before the Shepherds joked about their combined thirteen. Finally, Mr. Dunn mentioned his one hundred and forty-two, which he then proceeded to list off one-by-one.

Henry anxiously awaited a break in his words so Miss Fernside might have the chance to share her number, as his curiosity about that very fact had steadily grown since he’d first met her.

But Mr. Chumley broke through Mr. Dunn’s droning words instead. “Now, I must know next how you all…”

His words faded as he met his wife’s gaze. Mrs. Chumley raised a subtle finger in the air to signal for him to stop. “Yes, my dear?” he asked.

“Forgive my interruption, Mr. Chumley,” she began, “but I’m afraid we did not hear from Miss Fernside what her number is.”

Henry could have cheered for the woman.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Chumley began, clearing his voice with another strained smile. “Do share with us, Miss Fernside, what your little number might be.”

Henry fully expected the woman to cower beneath his gaze once again, to hide her talent for fear of being met with retribution.

But apparently, the man’s belittling words lit a fire within her. Miss Fernside lowered her fork carefully onto her plate, then faced the man directly. No hint of hesitation sounded in her tone, and no inkling of insecurity shone in her eyes.

“As of this morning,” she stated calmly, “one hundred and seventy-three.”

Mr. Dunn and Mr. Chumley did not react, but the others shared their surprise with open mouths and eyebrows raised in surprise. Henry, on the other hand, was not surprised. He had expected a large number from her from the moment she’d recognized the call of the kingfisher.

Instead, he was impressed. Impressed and even more aware of how he’d been swindled by their competition. Had he any chance of beating her?

“One hundred and seventy-three,” Mrs. Shepherd breathed. “That is remarkable.”

“And you only remain in Suffolk?” Mr. Gibbon questioned.

“Suffolk and London,” she responded.

“Makes me wonder how many more birds we are missing in our own little county,” the elder Mr. Kay said as the younger agreed.

“It truly is remarkable,” Mr. Shepherd added.

Miss Fernside smiled her gratitude, then glanced at Henry. He gave her an impressed look, and she responded with a simple little shrug—which made him smile all the more.

Until Mr. Dunn spoke.

“Hmm,” the gentleman mused. “That number seems a little farfetched to me.”

Silence fell around the table, and Miss Fernside’s smile stiffened. “Not for one who pays attention to migratory and breeding patterns.”

“Yes, but in only the east of England?” Mr. Dunn continued. “I hardly think that’s possible.”

“I assure you. It is,” she stated carefully.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are they unique birds? Or have you counted the same more than once?”

She gave a mirthless smile that showed just how much she was willing to tolerate his words. “They are all unique, sir. Considering there are over three hundred in Suffolk alone, my number is not beyond comprehension.”

“Birds that you have seen or heard?” he continued questioning, ignoring her defense.

Miss Fernside’s eyes flicked to Henry’s as she no doubt recalled the similarity to Henry’s own questioning at the beginning of the expedition—questioning he was beginning to slightly regret.

“Not that it matters,” she began, “but I have seen each individual bird with my own eyes. I do keep a field journal, if you care to check my work.”