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Her smile lit up her entire face, and his heart missed a beat.

“I hope you do not have to wait long for a reply,” she said.

“As do I.”

He sketched another three leaves and added a stem. It was better to focus on the ribwort plantain than on Miss Norton.

She remained silent as he finished the drawing. Above his head, a bird trilled. He heard the plop of the boy’s fishing hook enter the water, and a sheep bleated from somewhere closer to the carriage. He added a few tiny petal details to his drawing, closed his notebook, and glanced over his shoulder at Aunt Millward. She was facing the shrubbery, the peacock feathers on her hat gyrating wildly as her head moved from side to side.

“I think she’s keeping track of the animals,” Miss Norton whispered.

“It looks that way.” He slid his notebook and charcoal into his satchel. “Let’s dig up this ‘worty plant,’ and then I’ll see if she’s ready to relocate to the carriage.”

She held up the trowel. “Tell me what to do.”

Miss Norton was far better at following his instructions than she claimed to be at knitting or drawing, and in no time whatsoever, she had uprooted the plant with no obvious damage done to the roots, leaves, or flowers.

“We’ll leave a little soil around the roots to prevent the plant from wilting too badly before it reaches the museum,” he said, lying a piece of cheesecloth on the ground.

Without waiting for his prompt, she set the ribwort plantain in the center of the cloth. Immediately, a fat earthworm wiggled out of the damp earth clumped around the plant’s roots and started squirming across the cloth. Henry’s gaze shot to Miss Norton’s face. If she screamed, Aunt Millward would likely fall off the log.

“Look,” she said, picking up the earthworm with perfect calm. “We have an uninvited guest. Should I drop him back into the hole I dug, or do you think the young fisherman would like to use it for bait?”

Henry gaped. And then, when she set the earthworm in the palm of her hand on top of her filthy white gloves, he started to laugh.

She raised her head, a furrow creasing her brow. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“No, Miss Norton.” He attempted to control his laughter—for her sake and his aunt’s. “You did everything right. And I am quite sure you will please that young man to no end if you offer him an earthworm.”

Understanding and dismay dawned on her mud-streaked face.

“Young ladies in London do not generally handle earthworms, do they?” she asked.

“Not generally.”

She sighed. “I shall have to let you in on another secret, Mr. Buckland,” she said. “When I was young, I would beg Adam to allow me to go fishing with him. I wasn’t tall enough or strong enough to manage the rod, but I was very good at baiting the hook, and once he was sure that I could do it without injury, it became my regular role.” The earthworm on her palm contorted, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m not doing a very good job of pretending to be refined, am I?”

All at once, his amusement at her response to the earthworm felt wrong, and he knew he must say something to expel the discouragement he’d unwittingly brought upon her. “Please believe me when I say that you have no need for pretense, Miss Norton. It is my understanding that refined can be defined as ‘pure, gracious, and educated.’ If that is the case, you are the most refined young lady I know.” She had yet to meet his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Might I suggest a compromise?”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was low, but her natural curiosity could not be quelled.

“I will take the earthworm to the young fisherman for you. That way, he will benefit from your kindness, but your skills as a fisherman’s assistant will remain a secret.”

She was silent for a moment and then gave a slight nod of her head. “I like that compromise.”

“Good.” It was a step in the right direction, and yet, it did not seem enough. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and held it up. “You have a little mud on your face.”

She groaned and raised her other hand to her face. “Oh dear. I really am no better than a waif.” A second mud smear joined the first.

“Wait,” he said. “Allow me.”

Slowly, she lowered her hand. Leaning forward, he touched his handkerchief to her cheek. She stilled, her dark eyes meeting his. He swallowed hard and ran the cloth across the offending dirt.

“Is . . . is it gone?” she asked.

“Almost.” Marveling at the softness of her skin, he gently brushed away the second smudge while working to instill some normalcy into his voice. “There.” He lowered the handkerchief. “You are perfectly presentable once more.”

She blinked and surveyed her soiled gloves and gown, and her muddy shoes.