Page 56

Time slowly crept by, a half hour passing in the same manner as the sun stretched higher and higher into the sky before Lark finally acknowledged her inability to ignore the gentlemen and therefore gave up entirely, listening to their conversation unabashedly as it shifted from Blackstone’s to India to, inevitably, birds.

“Now, tell me more about this redstart,” Mr. Chumley asked. “How many eggs do they lay?”

“A dozen,” Mr. Branok responded. “When other birds typically lay half that.”

Lark paused, swinging back to look at them. That…that was not accurate.

“Heavens, a dozen,” Mr. Chumley mused. “And the color?”

“They are speckled, yellow and brown.”

That was also inaccurate.

“They’re typically in the tops of tall trees,” Mr. Branok continued. “Conifers, I believe. So this is strange to see one in the crevice of a wall.”

Once again, wrong. But now she understood. He must have confused the redstart with the golden-crested wren. She supposed it was easy enough to confuse the two, what with them both being small and both in Yorkshire for a time…but beyond that, the similarities ended.

“And what of their eating habits?” Mr. Chumley asked next.

“Insects, primarily. I believe…”

His words trailed off as he caught Lark’s gaze, and only when he appeared confused did she realize she still stared. She debated whether or not to correct him, then settled on the latter, looking away without a word. Correcting him would only push her to speak with him, and she’d determined to never do that again.

“I believe,” Mr. Branok began again carefully, as if expecting Lark to interrupt him with another stare, “they also eat the eggs and larvae of select insects.”

“Fascinating.”

Lark pressed her lips together. She didn’t need to correct him. The gentlemen would be happy enough in their ignorance. Obviously, Mr. Branok knew the difference and had simply confused the two birds, but that was more than fine.

She stared harder at the nest—the nest that would not be housing speckled, yellow and brown eggs—willing her ears to tune out the men, but their conversation continued.

“Redstarts also remain in England year-round,” Mr. Branok began. “And…just a moment…that cannot be right.”

Lark closed her eyes, fighting the urge to look at him for as long as possible before finally relenting. She glanced over at him, a crease between his brows as he fell deep in thought.

He must have realized he was mixing up the birds. Would he come to the conclusion on his own which ones he’d confused?

“I fear I cannot remember correctly if that is the redstart or…” Mr. Branok paused again.

Do not say anything, Lark. Do not. Do not.

But her tongue had a will of its own. “You’ve confused the redstart with the golden-crested wren,” she whispered.

Mr. Chumley didn’t look at her, having obviously learned to tune her out by now. But Mr. Branok stared at her.

“Pardon?” he asked.

Lark finally met his gaze, fully aware of Mr. Chumley watching her now, too. “The Redstart does not remain in England year-round but leaves in the autumn. Furthermore, their eggs are in number, only half a dozen, and they boast a shade of pale blue within their nests which are almost always fashioned in cracks and crevices. It is the golden-crested wren that lays a dozen eggs of a yellow variety in conifer trees.”

Mr. Branok, to his credit, at least appeared to contemplate her words, but Mr. Chumley instantly brushed her off with an intolerant scoff. “Thank you, Miss Fernside, but I fear I am more inclined to believe our resident expert on bird observing.” He lowered his voice further. “One who has left his own county.”

His condescending smile was the last straw—as was Mr. Branok’s continued silence. Praise Heaven for Penelope and the knowledge she’d given Lark, for now she could finally defend herself without repercussions.

She faced the men directly with a smile of her own. “Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Chumley, but if you prefer to believe Mr. Branok, I suggest you take your own advice, for my words about the golden-crested wren have come directly from Mr. Branok’s own volumes of work. As for my information about the redstart, I’m afraid you’ll have to take Thomas Bewick’s word for it, as he documents his findings in his book, A History of British Birds. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but I do not believe our resident expert”—she paused, giving Mr. Branok a fleeting, unimpressed look—“has seen a redstart before. You must forgive a simpleminded girl who has not seen much beyond her own little county, but I am apt to believe Mr. Bewick’s firsthand account instead of one who has not seen the bird at all.”

She ended with a pleasant smile, noting Mr. Branok’s distinct lack of response, then directly faced the nest once again, feeling more than a little satisfied with Mr. Chumley’s indignant expression.

As for Mr. Branok, who remained silently watching her, Lark believed she’d finally managed to offend him. And yet, the knowledge did not satisfy her. In fact, it made her regret her harsh words, which annoyed her to no end. The man deserved to be put in his place after he’d ignored her and offended her these last few days.