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William guffawed loudly.

“It’s hardly a joking matter.” Loveday gave Davy a troubled look. Neal doubted she’d ever seen a bird hat either, but Jenni had considerable powers of persuasion. What was more, Jenni was right. He cleared his throat.

“There are plenty of bird hats in London,” he said. “I can attest to it. I know an ornithologist who keeps a log of birds he sees atop women’s heads in the parks. Dead birds,” he clarified, shooting a glance at Davy, who pulled a face to keep from laughing. “He has logged hummingbirds, bluebirds, robins, parakeets, starlings. It’s not millions of birds, it’s hundreds of millions. From North and South America. Africa. India, too. New Guinea.”

He met Muriel’s eyes. Her expression was as troubled as Loveday’s. It must have cost her incalculably, defying family expectation, her entire upbringing, to follow her own path.

“Please,” groaned Tomas. “We’re all members of the Society for the Protection of Plumage in this house. Jenni made us sign pledges. You can spare us the statistics.”

“Your mother doesn’t still wear birds of paradise on her hats?” Loveday returned her attention to Muriel.

“Of course not.” Muriel straightened. “I put a stop to that.”

“Oh, well done!” cried Loveday. “Jenni will love to meet you.”

“I look forward to it,” said Muriel, and began to cut a potato wedge into fourths.

“A good thing fish don’t go on hats,” said Davy under his breath to William. This time William’s guffaw clogged. His face purpled. Tomas rose to slap his broad back, and at last, he sputtered and collected himself. Emmeline was hiding her face in her hands.

Alice sighed. “Gravy, please.”

Neal’s grin lasted all the way through the whortleberry pie.

Later, as he walked with Muriel along the cliff path, he saw that her eyes kept wandering away from the wildflowers to fix on the sea. Kyncastle was nestled in a narrow ravine, a few whitewashed cottages scattered on the slopes, additional cottages and several shops lining the cobblestone streets that fronted the harbor. The water, lapping gently around the quay, whirled and crashed just beyond the cliffs, kingfisher blue waves shattering into foam on the rocks.

“Did they meet Elizabeth?” she asked suddenly, turning. He’d knelt to examine the wild thyme carpeting the edge of the path and sat back on his heels. The vantage was unusual. He had to slant a look up at her. She’d taken off her bonnet and hung it about her wrist. The setting sun gave her hair and skin an apricot glow.

“Good Lord, no.” He picked bluebells as he rose, newly aware of his size. He was shorter than Jory, taller than Perran. Not a towering figure in the grand scheme of things. But she was a small woman, delicately built. He shifted around her, interposing his body between hers and the cliff’s edge.

Male vanity. That was what Jenni would call it. No one is going to fall off this cliff unless you dunderheads knock each other over trying to guard the damned edge.

Ah well. He couldn’t help himself. At least he didn’t have to compete for the outermost track with Davy, William, and Tomas. They started walking again, up toward the old parish church on the brow of the hill.

“Elizabeth thought Cornwall the preserve of savages,” he said. “I suggested a wedding in Penzance and she showed me the door.”

“What was she supposed to do?” Muriel laughed her disbelief. “Marry you in Penzance?”

“I didn’t suggest she sprout pig trotters and fly,” he said. “People do get married in Penzance from time to time.”

“Not Society people.” She arched a brow at him. “Now I see that you misrepresented your engagement. You ended it. She only made it official.”

He blinked at her. “That’s not how I saw it at the time.” There was, though, a certain truth to it. He’d dug in his heels at exactly the moments when he knew Elizabeth wouldn’t budge herself.

“Avoiding responsibility.” She shrugged. “Do you know what?”

They circled a boulder and she put out her hand, letting it brush the blooming sea pink that clung to the rock.

“You’re a snob.” She lifted her chin. “Cornwall is better than London. Science is better than Society. Girton is better than a Season.” She fluttered her lashes at him.

“Snobbery,” she said.

“I’m a snob.” His startled laugh was returned by a seagull wheeling overhead. “That’s a first.”

“Because your snobbery favors the inverse of what’s commonly approved among snobs.” She looked pleased with herself. “That makes it trickier to identify. However, I am an expert and nothing escapes me.”

“An expert on snobs?” he asked. “Or an expert snob?”

“Both.” She stopped short, and as his stride carried him forward she crossed behind him. “You were blocking my view of the sea,” she said, stepping off the path onto the carpet of wild thyme. A few feet away the slope dropped off, the fescue and bristle bent giving way to bald rock.