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She’d yelped in surprise with the cold water and subsequently frightened away the gulls that the party had been observing nearby. Shortly after, a gust of wind sailed toward the beach, blasting sand toward her and causing her eyes and nose to be filled with grit.

Not only could she not see properly, but a fit of sneezing had overcome her to the point that every bird they attempted to approach afterward was promptly scared off.

Aunt Harriet had insisted they return home for Lark to change so she would not catch a cold, and Lark did not protest. While she may not have cared any longer about upsetting Mr. Chumley, she truly did not wish to disturb the observations of the others, and at that rate, she most assuredly had been.

Fortunately, as they were traveling to the Lake District come morning, Lark had made the excuse of remaining in her room to prepare for the journey, even though, once again, she was merely avoiding others.

The morning of their departure ultimately arrived, and Lark joined the group on the gravel drive outside the house. She cast one final glance at the grandiose structure that had once held so much promise for the excursion—but had ultimately turned into a contemptuous representation of the failure that was this journey.

She could only pray the Lake District held more for her.

And yet, as they ventured forth, her fortunes did not change, for Mr. Branok still attempted to speak with her, and her aunt and uncle cast more and more concerned glances in her direction.

Lark ultimately feigned sleep to avoid such stares and conversation, though she remained wide awake, her mind abuzz as she listened to them chatter about birds, travels, and the countryside.

The one positive throughout the journey was Aunt and Uncle’s improved health. When the doctor had come to prescribe Lark a salve for her nettle, he’d overheard Uncle speaking of Aunt’s carriage illness. The day after, the physician returned with a tonic to soothe any future head pains or nausea.

Lark hadn’t the faintest idea what was in the draught, but it had put both Aunt and Uncle in decidedly jovial moods, which at least proved to soothe Lark’s concern for them.

She was also happy that their wellness allowed them to capture Mr. Branok’s attention entirely, for she had been serious in her words with him before. They were to be acquaintances. Nothing more, nothing less. No more private chatting. No more flirtatious smiles or glances. And certainly no more whispering.

While she was still coming to terms with the decision and all that it entailed—including losing out on a friendship with the first gentleman who seemed to understand her and accept her for who she was—she was determined to keep her distance from him.

So, when their day-long journey from Yorkshire to Cumbria drew to a close, and the house came into view, Lark blew out a silent breath of relief. That is, until she took in the sight before her.

Greygrove Manor, with its moody exterior and gloomy turrets, was the perfect reflection of her mood—and no doubt a prediction for what was to come over the next fortnight.

She thought perhaps the grey, gothic home was half-hidden by the thick shrouds of dark trees surrounding the property, but as they drew nearer, she realized the manor was truly that much smaller than Dreyton Park.

Which meant she would have that much more difficulty avoiding Mr. Branok.

Still, the view of Lake Windermere from the entrance of the house was unmatched. As she stretched her limbs from their tightness, she admired the calm, bluish-grey water in the placid aura of the early evening. She hoped to be able to see the water from her bedchamber, but as she was led to where she would reside for the coming fortnight, she soon discovered her only view was of the dense trees at the back of the house—trees that were far too thick to even see a foot within.

She plopped down onto her bed, her shoulders slumped forward as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She may have pretended to rest the entire journey, but she hadn’t managed a wink in between all the talking of the others.

Perhaps she could take advantage of that now and sleep until morning. It would be a fine excuse not to join the others for dinner tonight. Or maybe she could get by with feigning sleep for the next fortnight so that she might flee to London without another sight of Mr. Branok.

Then again, their convalescence in Town hardly sounded restful with the balls and dinner parties Mother no doubt had lined up for Lark each night. The two-week rest they had from the excursion would absolutely be another strain on her will to survive before they picked back up again and finished the expedition in Cornwall.

A sigh escaped her lips, and tears pricked her eyes at the feeling of confinement now pressing down on her. She just needed to rest. That was all. Tomorrow would not seem so bleak if she simply slept.

But then, what if nothing improved? What if the entire expedition was as disappointing and unbearable as her last week in Yorkshire had been?

A tapping on her door pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked over her shoulder at the closed entryway.

“Come in,” she called, ready to tell Penelope she would need help to dress down instead of up that evening.

But when Aunt and Uncle appeared instead, she stood to face them with a look of surprise. “Oh, I did not expect you both this evening.”

They closed the door behind them, then faced Lark in unison with pleasant smiles, albeit worried brows.

“Is everything all right? You’re both feeling well?” she asked.

Aunt and Uncle exchanged glances of concern, then nodded in unison.

“We are both well, dear Lark,” Aunt Harriet replied. “But…are you?”

“Why, of course I am,” Lark lied.