that as a compliment, Mr. Finch.”
His smile quirked up to one side, his brown eyes lightening. “As you should. The world is overpopulated with normal ladies.”
“And isn’t it so much better to embrace the ridiculous?” she said, examining his profile. “I prefer to see people laughing.”
*
If Finch wanted to lie to himself, he would claim ignorance as to why he’d accepted Miss Barrows’ invitation. Or he may say it was his gentlemanly duty. But in the confines of his thoughts, he could admit the truth. Even though the lady at his side was decidedly odd, spending time with her was far preferable to spending another hour on his own at Avebury Park.
Another friend lost to matrimony.
His feet trudged along, each step plodding across the countryside as Miss Barrows regaled him with jokes and other silliness, and Finch couldn’t say he was unhappy with the company. The lady’s lightness of spirit radiated out of her and spread to those around her, and however fleeting, it was good to set aside his troubles and simply chat with someone who seemed keen for his company.
And that gave Finch pause. Slanting a glance in her direction, he mused over the possibility that she was pursuing him. The thought was so ridiculous that Finch felt like laughing out loud. Even if Miss Barrows were desperate for a husband to rescue her from servitude, Finch was not the fellow to for her: his income would leave her worse off than if she stayed in Lady Lovell’s household.
But Miss Barrows was not flirtatious. Certainly, she was cheery and animated, and as their conversation evolved from the mundane into something more engaging, Finch was rather pleased to have been pressed into playing her escort.
“I do like to see you smile, Mr. Finch,” said Miss Barrows, and Finch shot her a puzzled look.
“I smile quite often, Miss Barrows.”
“My Aunt Imogene said the same thing of you, but…” The lady tucked her hands deep into her cloak and nibbled on her lip with a furrowed brow. “…but you seem to have a great many worries plaguing you.”
Finch’s brows rose at that, and he shifted from one foot to the other. His throat felt dry, but there was no relief to be found.
“I am surprised you feel that way. I wonder what gave you that impression.”
Miss Barrows continued to nibble on her lip, her gaze traveling the landscape ahead of them. “Call it a preternatural ability to sense sadness.”
Finch huffed, sending a puff of vapor out into the crisp air. “That sounds like a dreadful gift to have.”
The lady gave him an assessing glance. “It is handy at times.”
Though he did not turn to meet her gaze, Finch felt it. Miss Barrows watched him in a manner that made him shift his jacket and pull it closer, as though it might cover his exposed thoughts.
“I would think that someone in your position would have more to worry about than some random gentleman you met not twenty-four hours ago,” he replied, giving her a hint of a smirk.
“My position?”
“A lady does not become a companion of her own volition.”
The winter air had colored Miss Barrows cheeks to a bright pink, but there was a new hint of red that entered her complexion as she grasped his meaning, and Finch felt a twist of guilt at having pointed out her reduced circumstances.
“If you do not wish to speak of your troubles, I do not blame you,” she said. “But there is some comfort to be had in speaking—even with a stranger.”
“There is nothing to speak about.”
Miss Barrows turned to give him an arched brow at that lie but did not press the matter.
“Why do you care so much about helping this stranger?” he asked.
Coming to a halt, Miss Barrows turned to him with a pensive smile. “I suppose if I am asking for honesty, I ought to give it.”
Her bright brows pulled together, her gaze shifting to the side. With a swing, she turned back down the road, and the pair continued their journey.
“My mother named me Felicity because I was her felicity,” she said.
“I see where you gained your love of wordplay.”
Miss Barrows grinned at that. “My mother loved to laugh and took immense joy in making others do so. Though many of my memories of her have faded with time, I still recall the picnics where she would entertain us with stories that had us in stitches.”
There was something in her tone and the way she described her mother that made