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“I was distracted by the redstart,” she mumbled weakly in her defense.

“Well, it is gone now.”

Her stomach fell. He was blaming her for the bird’s departure. In reality, it was her fault. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, a rogue tear slipping down her burning cheek.

“You should have been more watchful.”

“We have the leaves,” Mr. Shepherd said, returning to them so Lark could not respond to Mr. Branok’s insensitive words.

Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Chumley rushed forward with more leaves in their hands, though Mr. Chumley remained behind in a weak search for more.

“Mrs. Shepherd and I can apply them in the carriage,” Mrs. Chumley said. “Mr. Branok, you must accompany us home so you might carry Miss Fernside to her bedchamber.”

Lark would have laughed had she not been on the verge of sobbing. There was no chance she would allow him to ride in the carriage with her while the women saw to her rashes—rashes that had reached more places than any of them had obviously suspected. And even if he took a separate carriage, she would never allow him to pick her up again.

The others behind them spoke in hushed tones about calling for a doctor, and Mr. Chumley finally caught up with them with a single dock leaf he extended to his wife.

Lark shook her head, though she knew no one would listen. “I do not need to be carried,” she managed, blinking through her tears. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“Are you?” Mr. Branok muttered under his breath for only her to hear.

She scowled up at him in shock, his pointed slight cutting through her final defenses.

“Put me down,” she commanded at once.

“I cannot.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’d hate for you to fall in poison ivy next.”

Her mouth hung open as if on a broken hinge. She would have slapped him soundly across his cheek if her limbs would have cooperated.

Of all the pretentious, pompous, presumptuous things to say.

With all that was left of her will, she removed her arm from around his shoulder and firmly pressed both hands against his chest, squirming until he had no choice but to drop her feet to the ground.

She landed with as much decorum as possible, straightening as she ignored the looks of surprise from the others behind Mr. Branok. He glowered at her, hands fisted, chest rising and falling from strain and no doubt frustration.

Facing him with a raised chin, though she knew what a sight she must be, Lark spoke in even tones. “I am well enough to walk. To the coach and to my bedchamber. I do not require the assistance of any gentleman, although I will gladly accept Mrs. Chumley and Mrs. Shepherd’s care on the return journey. Thank you.”

She shot Mr. Branok a pointed look, refusing to feel an ounce of remorse for her sharp words this time, and turned on her heel to make the rest of the way to the carriage herself.

Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Chumley followed behind her in silence, but Lark did not face them. She could not. For if she did, she would have revealed the silent cries now escaping her lips as her pain and humiliation overcame her.

Henry berated himself as the carriage rolled away with the women tucked safely inside.

He should have been more aware. He should have been watching Miss Fernside closer to ensure she did not wander toward the nettle. This was all his fault.

“Women,” Mr. Chumley grumbled, shaking his head as he and Mr. Shepherd came to stand beside Henry. “Lord Blackstone has it right. Mark my words, Mr. Branok, I shan’t ever allow them on another excursion.”

Henry grimaced, remaining silent in response as he pulled his stinging hands behind his back. In retrieving Miss Fernside from the nettles, he’d been caught by a few, but his pain was surely nothing compared to the agony Miss Fernside experienced.

“I’m sorry about all this, gentlemen,” Mr. Chumley continued. “That redstart will never return after Miss Fernside’s hysterics.”

Mr. Shepherd didn’t respond, looking away in slight discomfort, but Henry’s frown grew. Hysterics? The woman had been in unimaginable amounts of pain. In truth, she’d held it together remarkably well. Far better than Henry had his guilt. Then he’d had the audacity to chastise her, attempting to deflect his clear culpability toward her excited distraction with the bird.

“Are you truly upset, Mr. Branok?” Mr. Chumley asked, misreading Henry’s silence.