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Now that things had changed, however, perhaps she could ask him.

“You seem distressed, Uncle. What is the significance of Blackstone’s? Is this the club you belong to?”

Uncle straightened. “Certainly not. White’s cannot be compared to…Blackstone’s is known for …” He shook his head with a sigh and cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Branok. “Never you mind. Come. Let us rejoin the others.”

Lark hesitated, an unsettled feeling burgeoning in the pit of her stomach as concerning thoughts swirled round her mind. Why did Uncle appear so uneasy with Mr. Branok being a part of Blackstone’s? Was it simply due to the stigma of those who belonged being misfits? Or was there something else that frightened Uncle? Something that should frighten Lark?

Though she longed for answers to her questions, she did as she was told and rejoined the half-circled party.

“Do tell us, Mr. Branok,” Mr. Dunn was saying, “why are females always the uglier of the birds?”

Lark pulled a face. This was one surefire way to ensure she focused on the present—listening to Mr. Dunn’s thoughtless words. Only an ignorant, unobservant simpleton would call female birds ugly.

Mr. Branok caught her eye. Before, he’d averted his gaze with discomfort due to the conversation. Now, he watched Lark unabashedly, amusement alight in his features, no doubt at the disdain clearly written across her own—especially as Mr. Dunn continued.

“One would think the females would put in a little more effort to be more eye-catching,” he said.

Mr. Branok sent Lark a subtle nod of encouragement as if to say, “Go on, Miss Fernside. Tell him what you truly think.”

She did not have to be told twice.

“One would think so,” she said, stepping forward to face the entire party. “However, I find that female birds, while unattractive to the untrained eye, are some of the most striking creatures on earth. Yet, even if the females were dull and ordinary, the male birds would still do whatever they could to attract—nay, beg for attention.” She paused, looking to the women around her who were already smiling at her response. “At any rate, no matter the creature, human or bird, the men always do whatever they can to attract attention. All we women must do is simply breathe and they come flocking, do they not?”

Mrs. Chumley, Mrs. Shepherd, and Aunt Harriet laughed in unison. Uncle Francis, though clearly distracted, still smiled, and Mr. Shepherd cried out a, “Hear, hear,” with another loving look at his wife.

Mr. Dunn was the furthest thing from being impressed, and Mr. Chumley looked as angry and red as a robin’s breast.

Mr. Branok’s reaction was what she was most interested in, however, so when admiration shone in his blue eyes that matched the sparkling water nearby, her heart spread its wings and took flight.

“Right you are, Miss Fernside,” he said. “Right you are.”

Chapter 23

The Lake District – April 30, 1817

A few days after their arrival, the weather took a turn for the worse, and Aunt insisted on keeping Lark inside for fear of her catching a cold.

“It is only ten days until we return to London,” Aunt Harriet said. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to return to your mother with a chest cold.”

Lark had reluctantly agreed, especially when she discovered the men would be remaining indoors, as well.

However, instead of being treated to time with Mr. Branok, when the group gathered together for tea and conversation, she discovered his absence immediately.

She remained for as long as possible with the present company but soon found herself longing for solitude—if only so she might not have to feign interest in the conversations around her.

Excusing herself, Lark returned to her bedchamber, gathered her collection of Mr. Branok’s and Thomas Beswick’s books, then made her way to the library where she swiveled around an oversized, single-seat chair to face the window.

There, she nestled into the cushion and pulled out the first volume of Mr. Branok’s works, rotating between his words and the view she had out of the window as rain poured down onto the green grass and thick trees beyond.

The room was warm and comforting, the dark wood shelves and green furnishings made only slightly brighter by the dim light seeping in through the many windows that made up nearly all of the west wall.

Lark breathed a sigh of peace, finally feeling at one with herself.

The last few days she’d had with Mr. Branok had been a dream—occasionally flirting, regularly whispering, and frequently sharing in the joys of observing new birds like ospreys, ring ouzels, and jackdaws. Mr. Branok had often sought her out and asked for her knowledge on the birds they discovered, as well as any other information she might be willing to divulge, causing Lark to feel seen, heard, and appreciated.

Yes, she was quite content with their relationship the way it was—their friendship the way it was.

And yet, her emotions continually and errantly strayed. Each time he helped her down from the carriage, warmth rushed through her limbs to remain in her heart like an inextinguishable flame. And each time they spoke in hushed tones by the fire at night, her soul yearned to be nearer to him, so much so that when she was away from him, she could hardly focus on anything but him.