Page 40 of The Noble Smuggler

The duchess gave her a grateful look. “I’ll let you two be on your way, and I shall go to speak with the maid about my trunks.”

Lady Langton tucked her hand under Elizabeth’s elbow, and they started across the hall. “My daughter is returning to Finley Park tomorrow,” she explained.

“I’m sure you will miss her,” Elizabeth said.

The viscountess nodded. “I will indeed.”

As they approached the front door, a footman pulled it open and stepped aside so they could pass. Elizabeth smiled her thanks, feeling her skin pull as she did. Although she’d studied her rainbow-hued complexion in the mirror first thing this morning, she’d temporarily forgotten about her fearful appearance. The footman was obviously too well trained to show his shock. Instead, he gave her a polite nod, and she led Lady Langton outside.

They negotiated the three shallow stairs that led to the driveway without difficulty, then Lady Langton directed Elizabeth toward the stables. Not surprisingly, it was the building she’d noticed through her bedchamber window the day before, but rather than approach the large doors, they walked around to the opposite side of the structure.

“There they are!” Despite her excitement at spotting the nests, Elizabeth kept her voice low.

“Tell me what you see,” Lady Langton said.

“There are three dried mud cups fixed to the stable wall just beneath the eaves,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s right. They may be the same ones that were here in years past.”

“According to Mr. Edwards,” Elizabeth said, “swallows’ nests can be reused for ten to fifteen years.”

“You don’t say.” The viscountess looked pleased. “It’s rather nice to think that they still look as I remember them.”

“I think I hear chicks,” Elizabeth said. They both stood very still, and sure enough, above thuds of horses shifting in the stables came the high-pitched cheeps of young birds. “There’s a swallow sitting on a branch of that sycamore tree,” Elizabeth whispered. “She looks a bit anxious about our appearance near her nest.”

“Perhaps we should leave,” Lady Langton said.

Just then, the swallow swooped down and circled their heads with a squawk of protest before slipping into the nest and disappearing beneath the rim of the mud cup.

Elizabeth laughed in delight. “That was the mother bird. I believe we have been duly warned that we are too close to her babies.”

“I saw her go by in a blur of blue,” Lady Langton said with a matching smile. “Good for you, mother bird. We’ll leave you to tend to your little ones in peace.”

They walked together around the back of the stables. From here, Elizabeth could look out beyond the grove of trees to the pond. “This is such a perfect bird habitat,” she said. “I can only imagine how many choose to live here.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Lady Langton said. “I used to put out crumbs near the rose garden and watch them from the drawing room. We had a few regulars—blackbirds, thrushes, robins, blue tits, and sparrows—but I would not know them now.”

Elizabeth noted the sadness the older woman could not fully conceal. “I’m sure they miss it as much as you do,” she said. “Perhaps you could renew that experience by recognizing them in a different way.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a meadow near the inn with a large oak tree at its center. When I was young, I would sometimes sit at the base of the tree, close my eyes, and listen for the birds that stopped to rest on the wide branches above me.”

“And you could tell them apart?”

Elizabeth smiled at the viscountess’s skeptical expression. “It does not take long before you hear their voices much as you hear the voices of people around you—they are distinct and identifiable.”

“Other than ducks or cuckoos or woodpeckers, it seems that most birds sound very alike,” Lady Langton said.

They had stopped to rest beneath a beech tree. “Do you hear that one?” Elizabeth asked.

Lady Langton tipped her head to one side. “It sounds like a flute.”

“It does.” Elizabeth said. “That’s a thrush. Listen to the pitch—whether the notes are high or low—and the speed at which they come.”

“The tempo of their call,” Lady Langton said.

“That’s right. Sometimes their songs are low and full; other times, they’re high and faint. There may be a repeating pattern or a whole string of new notes. Each will give you a clue to the bird’s identity.”